The Tenth Circle (31 page)

Washington, DC

“Not what I wanted to hear,” McCracken told Captain Seven over the lessening sounds of gunfire.

“Sorry.”

“Give me a time.”

“Five and a half minutes before it reaches the frozen pipes and they blow under the pressure, six if you’re lucky.”

“I’m not.”

“Then say five until the secretary of agriculture is running the government. You better come up with something fast.”

McCracken’s eyes strayed across the floor. “I think I just did.”

Wareagle and Boyd Fowler locked hands on the assault rifle, struggling for control of it as they twisted and turned about the narrow catwalk, slamming up against the safety rail from one side to the other and back again and exchanging positions in the process.

Fowler tried to bend Johnny backward over it, tried to position the rifle’s stock so he could press it into Wareagle’s throat and choke him there and then. But Johnny reversed position again, driving the butt of the weapon up on an angle that smacked it under Fowler’s chin.

The bald man’s head shot backward enough for Wareagle to jam the rifle stock into his windpipe, choking off his air. The man’s eyes bulged and his face reddened, then purpled. It should have been over there, and would have been with any other man Johnny had ever faced. But Fowler maintained the presence of mind to clamp both hands on either side of the rifle and push up while Johnny continued to put pressure downward.

And the rifle began to move, slowly until Fowler mounted a powerful surge upward, Wareagle countering with the last thing the biker would ever think he’d do in response.

He let the gun go, so it flew from both their grasps and clattered along the catwalk before coming to a skidding halt. The momentum carried Fowler slightly past Wareagle, leaving Johnny with an advantage he seized by slamming the biker with a series of powerful blows to the ribs and skull. So muscular he seemed to be infused with steel, his bald head with the consistency of a boulder. Fowler lashed blows back at him that Wareagle deftly avoided or blocked until the biker came in fast, and bit into his cheek when Johnny’s boot caught in the catwalk grating.

“We are citizens. It’s a word that doesn’t just describe our nationality or legal status. It describes the way we’re made. It describes what we believe. It captures the enduring idea that this country only works when we accept certain obligations to one another and to future generations; that our rights are wrapped up in the rights of others; and that well into our third century as a nation, it remains the task of us all, as citizens of these United States, to be the authors of the next great chapter in our American story.”

Sal Belamo thrust open the front doors, allowing McCracken to jet out them atop an Athena ProStreet chopper, painted with orange flames over black with a seat so low it seemed to be touching the street. He’d already witnessed the last of the Palestinian commandos shot down, keenly aware that both Zarrin and Wareagle were currently continuing the battle from atop the catwalk, with Sal about to play one final card.

Having memorized the twisting route the water system followed from here to the Capitol, Blaine knew there was no chance he could reach the building ahead of the White Death.

But he could come close, close enough.

Maybe.

Zarrin watched McCracken roar out of the building atop the chopper, finding herself amazed even in these circumstances and conditions by the man’s grit, by his refusal to quit or concede under any circumstances.

No wonder he’d survived so long.

She’d been watching the battle between Boyd Fowler and Johnny Wareagle from the catwalk floor, had actually flinched when Fowler bit into Wareagle’s cheek and refused to let the bite go.

She focused on the assault rifle that had come to a rest a mere ten feet from her and pushed herself toward it, her legs heavy and slow, as if both were asleep. She managed to get the rifle into her hands, was raising it to her shoulder to sight in on the big biker, when her fingers stiffened and locked, and the weapon dropped from her grasp.

McCracken took all the Athena ProStreet would give him as he swung off Second Street Northwest onto North Capitol Street heading in the same direction atop a machine putting out almost a 125 pounds of torque and capable of speeds well in excess of a hundred miles per hour. His plan was to ride the chopper straight to the Capitol, tracing the underground route of the pipes that fed water to the building, pipes that currently pulsed with a deadly toxin that would kill everyone attending the State of the Union address within moments of exposure. His trek was about to become a treacherous path around buildings as well as along sidewalks and down one-way streets, in line with the piping beneath him.

“You there, Captain?” he said into his Bluetooth earpiece.

“Ready and waiting. What’s that noise, MacNuts?”

“Chopper I’m riding.”

“I won’t even ask.”

“Don’t. There’s no time. Let me do the talking.” McCracken risked a glance upward for no good reason at all. “There are drones in the sky here, Captain. Good old Predators. Any chance you can hack into the network controlling them so we can fire a couple of missiles?”

“Sure, if you give me an hour.”

“Since we’ve got less than five minutes, just answer me this: How fast are the contents of those pipes moving?”

“Depends on the metric weight of the liquid death but forty, maybe forty-five miles per hour would be a fair estimate.”

McCracken glanced down at the chopper’s speedometer, which read sixty-five. “Good enough. All right, Captain, here’s what I need you to do—”

Before Blaine could continue, though, another voice broke into the line.

“Jesus Christ, McCracken,” barked H. J. Belgrade, “please tell me you’re there.”

“H. J., you are a sound for sore ears. Literally.”

“Well, I wake up expecting to see Elmer Fudd on the television and there’s the president instead. Then I remembered our little talk. Took me a while to put things into context.”

“You need to make a phone call,” McCracken told him, “and you need to make it fast.”

Johnny felt the blast more than heard it, he and Boyd Fowler still locked up and exchanging hammer-like blows when the explosives Sal Belamo had wired around the exterior of the building erupted in a frenzy of ruptured glass, brick, slate, and plaster.

The surviving bikers had just trained their attention upward when the waves of glass and debris slammed into them, turning flesh and bone into pincushions, the force of the blast substantial enough to actually tear off limbs and heads. The shock wave also separated a section of the catwalk from its brackets, sending it swinging in a semicircle northward over a tank containing the sludge filtered from the McMillan Reservoir water before it entered Washington’s system.

Wareagle and Boyd Fowler literally dangled over that tank as they continued their dance of death.

“All right,” Belgrade’s voice returned less than a minute after breaking to move to another call, “we got Predators on your bubble but they need a fire point. Wouldn’t happen to have a laser designator in your pocket, would you, son?”

“No,” McCracken said, thinking fast, “but maybe something just as good.”

McCracken veered onto the sidewalk at Louisiana Avenue and then hurdled back into stalled traffic with the police now giving chase as he approached New Jersey Avenue. He snatched a road flare from the emergency kit beneath the rear of his seat and twisted the top off with his teeth, the bright chemical flame firing to life.

“Tell Predator Control to fire on a road flare.”

“Son, did you say—”

“Yes, just tell them to aim for the flame. That’s my twenty and the White Death’s twenty inside the pipes I’m running even with. Captain, tell me I’ve got this right.”

“As rain, MacNuts. Carbonic acid needs oxygen to spread. But the blast, if it comes, will suck that oxygen out of the air so all the city’s gonna be left with is one massive sanitation problem for a while.”

“I think they can live with that. H. J.?”

“Right here, Elmer.”

“Make the call,” McCracken said, with the National Mall, Reflecting Pool, and Grotto just ahead of him, the majestic Capitol Dome coming into sight.

“No way you can both escape the blast radius and light up the target, son,” Belgrade warned, “no way.”

Washington, DC

The catwalk bounced over the tank of collected sludge, vibrating madly. The two giants ignored the precarious balance, their blows thrown even harder, incredible in their force and their intensity­. Fowler had the advantage as far as pure strength, thanks to his layers of muscle. But that muscle had the dual effect­ of slowing him ever so slightly in comparison t
o Wareagle’s gliding, lithe moves. So far the narrow confines hadn’t allowed him to take advantage­ of his quickness, though he could tell the mere volume of blows thrown by the biker was exhausting him.

But Fowler fought with the conviction that God was on his side. He and the Reverend Rule had found each other for a reason, his baptism earlier today in no way a coincidence.

Because he had been saved.

And now, no matter what, God would save him, extend the helping hand he needed to prevail and see this fight to its finish.

The sludge beneath them atop the wobbly catwalk smelled like the refuse from clogged drain taps, wafting through the air even as its surface frothed and bubbled. Frustrated by the diminishing effects of his blows, Fowler bellowed and launched himself forward, intending to topple the big man off the catwalk. He’d fought plenty of men in his time, but never one who could match him in size and strength. The ponytailed Indian before him seemed more ghost than man, a test to see if Boyd was worthy of His good graces. All well and good because he knew in his heart he would.

Problem was the Indian had anticipated his attack perfectly and had positioned himself with the separated end of the catwalk at his back to ready himself for it. Their collective weight so close to the edge bent the catwalk downward at a sharp angle toward the bubbling sludge tank. Fowler grabbed the handrail to keep from sliding into it, realizing too late that Wareagle had grabbed nothing at all.

Johnny crashed into him, extending his hands at the last possible instant and using Fowler’s own momentum to topple him over the handrail while all his attention was turned to the precarious lean of the catwalk’s far end.

Fowler managed to grab hold with a single arm, his huge eyes full of defeat and resignation.

Wareagle extended a hand downward, expecting the biker to reach up and take it.

Fowler looked up, but continued to let himself dangle. Because the hand of God would find him instead. The hand of God would save him. He had never been more certain of anything in his life, even as his other hand began to slip off the steel.

Even as he fell, believing himself saved as the sludge swallowed him.

“Each time I look at that flag, I’m reminded that our destiny is stitched together like those fifty stars and those thirteen stripes. No one built this country on his own. This nation is great because we built it together. This nation is great because we worked as a team. This nation is great because we get one another’s backs. And if we hold fast to that truth, in this moment of trial, there is no challenge too great, no mission too hard. As long as we are joined in common purpose, as long as we maintain our common resolve, our journey moves forward, and our future is hopeful, and the state of our Union will always be strong.”

“President’s still talking,” McCracken heard Belgrade say in his ear.

“I can hear the applause off your television.”

“Then hear this: We got Predators on station, zeroed on your twenty. Just say the word.”

McCracken yanked the pull string of the emergency flare off with his teeth, feeling the flame burst singe him before he got the flare extended overhead.

“Word.”

“Fire and forget, son. Get ready to get your ass out of there. I’m giving you a standing O just like you’re the president. Listen to me clapping.”

McCracken didn’t veer the chopper off until he heard the sizzle of the Predator-fired missiles streaking downward on his location, zeroing on the flare he has holding. Then he tossed it straight up in the air and banked the chopper sharply left, coughing divots of grass and dirt behind him.

The Althena ProStreet boasted six right-mounted gears and he used all of them in tearing away, kicking up more dirt and grass with the chopper’s front wheel lifting briefly off the ground before the bike lurched into what felt like light speed. Accelerating so fast that Blaine’s breath was gone even before the dual blast from the Predators hit with nary a gap.

Impact was dizzying. He tensed for it, thought he was ready, but then he was flying through a night momentarily stripped of air. McCracken had stolen a space shuttle once, had done all his training in the ship’s initial launch, learning the nature of g-forces the hard way.

That’s what this felt like. He churned through the air in what seemed to be slow motion, barely aware of the huge flame burst that had blown a hole in the National Mall and eviscerated everything that lay beneath it.

Including the White Death and the pipes carrying it, lost in a black smoke cloud that blew outward before it seemed to be sucked back into the chasm.

Impact felt cushiony, even when his shoulder crunched and crackled as he rolled across the hard earth, beneath the flight of the bike that continued to soar on. He came to a rest in direct line with the emergency road flare he’d used to mark the target, which flamed out at the same time he felt his hold on consciousness ebbing.

“Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”

McCracken heard those words intermixed with applause and his name being yelled by H. J. Belgrade as the cold and darkness finally found him in their grasps.

FOUND

Washington, DC: one week later

McCracken sat alongside H. J. Belgrade on the park bench on the grounds of the city’s Armed Forces Retirement Home, tossing bread crumbs to the flock of pigeons that had magically appeared­. He used his left hand since his right was still held in a sling.

“Not sure they’re gonna let me stay here much longer, son,” Belgrade said suddenly, tossing a handful of his own.

“You cause too much a ruckus?”

“Nah. They say I’m a nuisance to the environment.” Belgrade tossed another handful of feed, as more pigeons fluttered to the ground. “They said they never had a bird problem ’til I came along.”

“Bird problem?”

“That’s what they call it.”

“Meaning they have no idea what you pulled off from within their walls.”

“Nobody does, except the people who need to. Thanks to them, you’re not a wanted man anymore, son. And all that video footage featuring you won’t be showing up on any network that doesn’t want its air to go dead. It’s also mysteriously vanished off the Internet.”

“They’re welcome to use it after I’m dead, H. J.”

“Which I don’t reckon is coming anytime soon.”

“What’s the cover story they’re going with?”

“Oh, you’re gonna love this. An exploding pipe.”

“You mean they’re telling the truth for once.”

Belgrade looked over at him, seeming to forget the bag of bread crumbs on his lap or the clutter of pigeons now brushing up against both their legs. “Know what’s good about this mess, son? There’s nothing to clean up like there usually is. Rule’s dead, the bikers are dead, and the conspiracy’s low-life planners have mysteriously vanished.”

“This mess, yes,” McCracken acknowledged, “but what about the next one? Looks like we got a whole new generation of enemies who grew up pulling toy prizes out of cereal boxes and have now figured out all the corners and potholes along the information superhighway. Gives us both all the more reason to stick around until the younger guys figure all this shit out. We stopped the tenth circle, sure, but what about the eleventh, twelfth—you do the math, H. J.”

“Just when I was hoping to retire.”

“Me too.”

The two men looked at each other, breaking out into smiles, then laughter, at the same time.

Belgrade gazed about him, taking a big breath of chilled early February air. “Know what else? I believe I could do without this place.”

“You do have some bad moments, old friend,” McCracken reminded.

“Don’t we all?”

McCracken was waiting when Zarrin emerged from Georgetown University Hospital, her eyes widening in surprise at his presence.

“What’d the doctors say?”

“I’ll be lucky to able to hold a water pistol from now on.”

“And the piano?”

She shrugged. “There’ll be good days and not so good ones.”

“What’s Colonel al-Asi have to say about that?”

“He offered me a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“He didn’t say, which says everything.” Zarrin saw McCracken’s gaze turn evasive and thrust a finger at him. “You spoke to him yourself, didn’t you?”

“He asked for a reference.”

“I’m guessing it was something else.”

“He offered me a job too.”

“What kind of job?”

“He didn’t say.” McCracken hesitated, trying to keep his expression flat. “Without those men he sent us, this country would still be picking up the pieces.”

“And don’t think he doesn’t know that.”

McCracken smiled slightly until his gaze darted to her hands. “I’d like to see you play again, Zarrin.”

“I’ll make sure to let you know, so you can enjoy the show.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” McCracken told her.

“After all,” she said, coming up short of a smile, “what else do we have?”

“I was just thinking,” Blaine was saying, having finally reached Andrew Ericson’s father, Matthew, with the news that Andrew was fine and safe now as well.

“About what?”

“The first time I saw you. At rugby practice at the Reading School.”

“What do you remember most?”

“All that hair bouncing around.”

Matthew laughed. “Just a memory now.”

“Andrew looks just like you.”

“Poor kid.”

“I can make all the arrangements for his trip home from my end,” Blaine told him.

“Believe I’ll make the trip over to retrieve him personally. That should give us some time to get together, catch up.”

“I’d like that. How was Afghanistan?”

“Is that where I was? All the countries seem the same after a while.” He paused, the silence exaggerated by the suddenly static-filled line. “I don’t know how to thank you, Blaine.”

“Not necessary.”

“Because it’s family.”

“As close as I’ve got, anyway.”

“We need to make sure that’s close enough. But we never learn, do we?”

“I think I did this time.”

“What’s the next holiday?”

“Easter, Passover, something like that.”

“You available to join the kid and me?”

“I just might be,” said McCracken.

It was two weeks later, his sling finally shed and his beard nearly regrown, when Blaine joined Johnny Wareagle in the Black Hills of South Dakota where Wareagle had resumed work on the granite carving of Chief Crazy Horse in the mountain face. This time, McCracken had his own tools ready, but he still worked with a safety harness while Johnny, the stitches still in place where Boyd Fowler had taken a bite out of his cheek, stood out on the ledge tempting the wind and elements.

“Know my problem with all this, Indian?”

“What?”

“Can’t change the past. It’s already chiseled in stone without adding our efforts to the mix,” Blaine said, gazing up at the scope of the carving before starting in with his tools.

“Maybe we’re no better at changing the present,” Wareagle told him.

“Because no matter how many times we get the call, the phone keeps ringing.”

Johnny regarded Crazy Horse as best he could from this angle. “From where we stand, you wouldn’t even know this was a face.”

“You mentioned that before.”

“But with every bit of chiseling we do,” Wareagle continued, his heels teetering precariously on the edge, “no matter how small, it takes on more shape. Incrementally.”

“Small victories, sure. You’re saying it’s the same thing with the present.”

“Am I? Because it’s the future we’re really fighting for.” War­eagle looked up, focusing on Crazy Horse as if McCracken wasn’t there at all. “But no matter where we stand, we can’t really see that future because it’s unfinished. It’s up to us to shape the contours and create clarity, just like we’re doing here.”

“Only with an assault rifle instead of a chisel.”

“Whatever it takes, Blainey.”

McCracken raised his hammer into position, imitating Johnny’s motion on the sheer rock face before them waiting to join the rest of the sculpture. “Guess that’ll do for now, Indian …”

Tap, tap, tap …

“… and we’ll see if tomorrow brings anything different.”

The area around the actual location of the Roanoke Colony was evacuated out to a two-mile radius. The explosive charges set around the site of the encampment were of the shaped variety to assure a total collapse of not only the well that had contained the contaminated water, but also the surrounding ground structure. That was the only way to assure that all traces of the carbonic acid spawned from ancient volcanic activity would be safely entombed. The explosions were set off by remote detonation, the blast wave creating an earthquake-like rumble that was felt for miles beyond the quarantined area.

Hours later, all residents were allowed to return to their homes after ground tests picked up no trace whatsoever of what had wiped out the colonists in 1590, and had very nearly claimed far more victims than that just a few weeks earlier.

The White Death was no more.