The Brea File (44 page)

Had Ruhle forgotten the trip wire he had hidden in the deep grass? Macimer would always wonder. At the time there was only the shock of the explosion, the ground heaving and the stunning burst of the bomb. Gordon Ruhle was lifted into the air, an arm and a shoulder and part of his face dissolving like ashes in the wind. Then mud and grass and bits of human debris blinded Paul Macimer.

And tears.

* * * *

Macimer pushed drunkenly to his feet. He felt heavy, clumsy. His feet dragged as he tried to move, and one toe kicked the drum magazine of the Thompson submachine gun on the ground. Bending slowly and painfully, he picked up the weapon by the rear pistol grip. Except for the broken butt stock, the gun appeared to be undamaged. As Macimer stared down at it, his gaze was riveted on the bolt.

It was forward.

The gun was uncocked.

“Damn you, Gordon,” he whispered. “You knew!”

In a spasm of pain Macimer jerked the barrel of the machine gun upward, aiming at a single small spruce thirty feet away. The rocker pivot was set on full automatic. He retracted the bolt, braced himself against the recoil and squeezed the trigger. He held it down long after the deafening roar of automatic fire had diminished to the impotent rattle of an empty magazine.

The narrow trunk of the spruce disintegrated at a point waist-high.

The top half of the tree toppled forward as the long burst of fire cut the trunk in half.

Macimer stared numbly at the crumpled shape in the grass where Gordon Ruhle had fallen. It didn’t jam, he thought.
It didn’t jam
.

He threw the weapon to the ground and stumbled toward the cabin. He was beyond pain, beyond grief, the organism adjusting instinctively to enable itself to survive. He felt nothing until the small hard shape of his daughter’s body hurtled against him, and his arms went around her, holding on.

* * * *

“This is WFO 172,” Macimer said into the car microphone, identifying the FBI vehicle’s call number. “WFO 172. Do you read me?”

He kept repeating the message over and over. He was beginning to despair when there was an abrupt response, loud and clear, “HGN 15, HGN 15, I read you, WFO 172. Where are you?”

Macimer felt a leap of hope. “This is Special Agent Paul Macimer. I’m five miles east of Wheeler, Maryland. Repeat, five miles east of Wheeler. It’s a state road—”

“I’m heading up toward Wheeler now. You at the cabin?”

“Yes,” said Macimer, stunned.

“It’s a safe house,” the agent from Hagerstown said. “Supposed to be empty. Are you all right, Mr. Macimer?”

“I’m fine, never mind me. Can you patch me through to Washington?”

“I can get a message through the Hagerstown RA’s office. We’re out of range for Washington.”

“Send it urgent, priority A.” Macimer took a deep breath, hoping that he was not too late, and began to talk.

* * * *

The graduating class of new agents from the spring session of the FBI Academy milled around restlessly in the corridor outside the main auditorium. The doors to the auditorium remained locked, as they had for nearly twenty minutes, and there was much curious speculation in the corridor, one rumor leading to another, wilder one.

Twenty minutes earlier, a team of grim-faced FBI men and a squad of uniformed Marines had charged through the Academy on the run, emptied the auditorium and locked the doors. Shortly afterward the Director himself had arrived, shouldering his way along the corridor like a ship plowing its way along a narrow channel, scattering waves of new agents on either side. He disappeared behind the same closed doors.

John L. Landers had come to address the graduates and to shake the hand of each new agent in a time-honored ritual. It was the moment they had all been waiting for. Now it was being delayed, and no one knew why.

“I heard they were bomb-disposal specialists,” one of the graduates said.

No one joked about the rumor, as they might have only a few weeks ago. The memory of Timothy Callahan’s death was too fresh.

Without warning the doors to the auditorium were thrown open. The new agents were directed to their seats, and the big modern auditorium quickly filled. A buzz of excited conversation continued for several minutes, during which time a number of the graduates noted that the podium from which the Director would normally have addressed them was missing from the stage.

At last the solid, familiar figure of John L. Landers stepped into view from the right wing and strode slowly toward center stage. The moment was electric, fed by curiosity and anticipation and unchecked rumor. As one mass the entire class of new agents came to their feet, and a spontaneous roll of applause began to build.

HISTORICAL FICTION

Down From the Mountain

Trail: The Story of the Lewis and Clark Expedition

SCIENCE FICTION

Down to Earth

Psychedelic-40

Barrier World

The Sentinel Stars

Corpus Earthling

No Place on Earth

THRILLERS & SUSPENSE

Way Out

And Hope to Die

The Lair

Night of Violence

Intruder

From a Dark Place

Nor All Your Tears

The Magnificent Siberian

The Brea File

The Devil's Menagerie

Stalk

The Ice

White Harvest

all available as Jabberwocky ebooks

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