Stackpole, Michael A - Dark Conspiracy 03 (10 page)
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Authors: Evil Triumphant
Still, 1 sensed no anxiety from the guards or people passing back and forth through the lobby, so I
assumed they were all well acquainted with their weapons and, therefore, less likely to go berserk and
start shooting.
A tall, broad-shouldered, solidly built man with dark hair, an open face and broad smile came out of the
corridor on the left side of the lobby. He wore jeans and a green sweater, with a Bianchi shoulder holster and Colt 1911A1 tucked into it. 1 could tell by the tab on the clip shoved into the pistol's butt that it was a 10mm conversion, not still in the original .45 caliber. That meant4 in the big man's hands, recoil would
not be a factor and the added clip capacity would be a plus.
"You must be Michael Loring." He offered me a hand
and shook with a strong, dry grip. "And you're Natasha Farrell. I'm Charles Goyette. Come on into the studio and we'll get you situated."
He led us to a security door and punched a combination into the lock. We followed him through that
down a Corridor and past a bank of monitors carrying news from the four major stations in Phoenix.
Halfway through the newsroom we turned right, and after a short walk through a dark corridor we entered
the studio to the left.
Charles slipped behind the control desk and pointed me to the chair opposite him. He put Natch on my
right so we both could face him. Beyond her, a huge picture window opened out onto Eclipse. Behind us,
a glass wall let Charles look on into the operations room where his broadcast engineer and a member of
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the news team were working to pr
oduce the newscast droning on in low tones in the studio.
"Just pull the microphones toward you. You want them at mouth level, about two to three inches from
your lips. You'll need your headphones when we take callers." He shuffled some notes and glanced at the computer monitor to his left. "This should be a good segment, so I expect the boards to light up. We'll be on a seven-second delay, so if something slips out, we'll get it."
He handed each of us a preprinted card. "Study this and sign it. It's just a precaution, but we have to do it to stay legal."
1 took it and flipped from one side to the other before reading. The back had a map of the station and a
red line running from the studio to an emergency exit. I assumed, before I started in on the text, it was a fire prevention card detailing the escape route, but the text proved me wrong. It read:
In accordance with the Gwyn-Rogovitch ordinance
(Phoenix Municipal Code 23-491-020-01),
I, the undersigned, have been informed of the evacuation route in case of an armed incursion of this broadcast facility. I certify I have no firearms on my person and all combat will be left to the staff and security personnel to handle in the event of an incursion.
I raised an eyebrow. "Gwyn-Rogovitch ordinance?"
Charles nodded. "I forgot, you're not from Phoenix originally. In the 1980s and '90s, we had a couple of incidents here. A madman, Billie Gwyn, took a local TV anchorman hostage in the studio and forced him
to broadcast a statement. In the 1992
a
quadruple murderer, Pete Rogovitch, commandeered a radio promotion van to make his escape. The City Council decided that all radio and TV personalities and
employees should then go armed to prevent such things from happening again."
I frowned. "Wouldn't increasing police coverage be a better idea?"
Charles shrugged easily. "Ratings battles during sweeps get nasty around here, and Scorpion Security didn't want any part of getting into the middle of that. But don't worry, there hasn't been an incident since the pirate station out in Glendale got involved with a firefight with Ev Mecham supporters in '02."
"Charles, on the air in 10," came the engineer's voice through the studio's speakers.
Charles nodded at the man in the room behind us, then watched the clock click down on the computer
monitor. As the hour became 7:00:00, our host leaned in toward the microphone. "This is Charles Goyette here with another program in KTAR's long-running
Jobline series. Tonight, we have two delightful guests. With me is the new CEO of Lorica Industries,
Michael Loring, and Natasha Farrell, one of the first enrollees in Lorica's 'Adventures in Opportunity'
program. Welcome."
"Thanks, Charles."
He looked down at his notes, then smiled. "Lorica Industries has opened a new program that you're
calling Adventures in Opportunity. What can you tell us about this program?"
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I look
ed up and made eye contact with Charles. "Lorica is starting to hire people who are willing t
o take a
chance
on getting out of their present circumstances. Right now, for example, we are starting Phas
e One
of the AIO program, and that calls for a total of 300 men and women who are willing to travel away from
Phoenix for somewhere between one to three months. We will be providing meals, board, transportation,
tools, insurance, benefits and a generous salary, but everyone should understand that it will be hard work and perhaps even slightly dangerous."
"Hence the program title, Adventures in Opportunity."
"Exactly. We're going to be hiring through the Sunburst Foundation, so people can get details through them. We want a wide range of experience, because we'll be forming our own little community while we
get the job done."
Charles nodded and looked over at Natch. "Now Ms. Farrell, you're one of the first people to enroll in the program. You've lived here in Phoenix all your life?"
"Y-yes." Natch started a bit nervously, but the host's smile helped cut the tension. "I lived in Eclipse and heard of this program from a friend at Sunburst."
"So you applied ahead of time?"
"Natasha is going to be one of our screeners and project coordinators," I interjected. "She is part of the staff we're using to put this program together."
"What attracted you to the program, Natasha?"
"The chance it offered, I guess. Living in Eclipse, like, the Frozen Shade almost feels like a cork in a bottle, you know?" She looked at the window for a second, then continued. "I saw this as a chance at getting out of the bottle. Out from Phoenix, I'll get a chance to learn something about myself. If I don't feel like I'm living under a rock, maybe I won't feel like a bug. Can't hurt to find out, anyway."
I smiled and gave Natch a wink. The host turned back to me and asked another question, which I
answered quickly, then we went to a commercial. The show continued in an easygoing style, alternating
between a general discussion of the city to dealing with callers who wanted to know if they or someone
they knew would be suitable for the AIO program. Things went well and, all too quickly, the hour game
to an end.
"Well, that's it for this hour. After the news we'll be back with the head of the Phoenix Skeptics
discussing the continuing controversy about GFOs and other weird things pouring into our state from
Nevada." Charles hit a button on the console and pulled off his earphones. "Hey, that was a great show.
We'll have to do two hours next time."
"1 look forward to it," 1 told him. The show had given me hope, because I knew the next day we'd have thousands of people applying for the few positions we did have open. At the same time, the desperation I
heard in some voices made me wonder if Natch had been right to question our ability to make changes. In
our alliance with Fiddleback, we might have enough power to destroy Pygmalion, but that still left us
with
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Fidd
leback, and he was, by no means, an impotent enemy.
A sense of impending doom started to build in me as I thanked Charles. We left him in the lobby to greet
a short, heavy-set man with a beard, and headed out of the building. As the door clicked shut behind us, I turned toward Natch. "You did a great job."
"Thanks."
We set off back toward City Center, and I suddenly realized why 1 felt uneasy, and I knew it had nothing
to do with Fiddleback and the danger he presented. We had been broadcasting on the radio from a place
that was a well known location. We left the building within a predictably short time after the end of the broadcast and, for security reasons, we even exited through the same door we had used to enter the
building.
We had provided anyone having the means and motive with a grand opportunity.
The Warriors of the Aryan World Alliance took it. Two blond young men in gray wool longcoats stepped
out of the Ultra-shuttle waiting shelter. The yanked their coats open and brought their weapons to bear. I turned to warn Natch, but before I could say anything, 1 heard thunder and watched her fold around a
shotgun blast to her stomach.
In that instant, I returned to the training I had gone through for as long as I had been Fiddleback's tool.
Drifting toward my left, eclipsing Natch's falling body with my own, I eluded most of the shotgun blast
meant for me. I felt pellets hit and heard them thwap through the plastic of my windbreaker, but the
Kevlar softened the blow of the four or five that hit me.
One part of my mind assessed the damage that had been done. I felt pain, which meant the vest had not
stopped all the pellets. I knew, given the physics
behind the way Kevlar worked and the reality of shotgun ballistics that I was lucky anything had been
stopped. By the time I moved a step closer to the shotgunner, I had determined the damage to me was
minor at best and that I could close and kill the shotgunner before he could break the weapon open and
reload.
His partner brought up a silenced and suppressed Ingram Mac-10, but my swing to the left meant his
partner shielded me. If he wanted to burn his friend, I was dead. This close, the Mac-10's .45-caliber slugs would blow clean through my vest and, since the Aryans had provided the vest in the first place, I could
not rule out the gun having been loaded with Teflon-coated shells.
Counting on some vague honor among white supremist trash, I used the cover and made my move.
Sprinting forward and off to the side, I reached the railing that guarded the pedestrian walkway on the
edge of the up-street. I vaulted up and over it, then dropped away into space as bullets pinged and sparked off the railing.
The Aryans
had
been using Teflon bullets. One hit me in the left shoulder, knocking me back and around through freefall. A wave of pain crashed through me, and in its wake I could feel the grinding click of my shoulder girdle trying to accommodate disintegrating bones.
I had leaped from the up-street knowing the long drop would likely injure me, but injury beat certain
death. Mow, with the motion imparted by the bullet, I fell out of control. Twisted around, I could not see
