Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“You’re a bad girl,” Art said, leaning closer as Anne pulled him. She eased onto her back between the couch and coffee table, which Art slid aside.

“I’m both.” Anne took his head in her hands as he came close. “Tell me which one you like better.”

“I will,” Art said, kissing her softly and pulling away for just a second. “In the morning.”

John Barrish looked upward through the windshield, gazing at the star-filled, limitless sky as Toby pulled the Aerostar into the driveway and to the storage yard’s access box.

“Stan and I figured this was as safe a place as any,” Toby said, taking the white plastic card from his jacket and inserting it into the slot. The arm restricting access to the facility jumped upward, allowing him to drive through.

“I missed the stars while I was locked up,” John commented. “Do you remember what Trent said about the stars?”

Toby pulled in a slow breath, steadying himself for a recital of some more wise musings of the renowned Dr. Felix Trent, long-dead purveyor of the racial purity theories his father held dear.

“He said the stars burn bright for one reason,” John began. “So that one can navigate by them. ‘Chart your course by the stars you see, and ignore the rest.’ ” He nodded, a wistful smile coming softly to his face. “He was a wise man, Toby.”

“Yeah. We’re here, Pop,” Toby said, stopping and hopping out of the Aerostar.

John got out and followed his son to the door, slightly larger than one typical for a residence. Toby flipped through several keys on his ring before finding the right one for the single padlock. He opened it and hung it on the unlatched hasp, then turned the light on inside the ten-by-eight storage room he’d rented a month earlier.

“Where is it?” John asked, looking over the motley combination of boxes and old furniture piled against one wall.

Toby closed the door behind them and went to the pile. “Stan and I moved this stuff in here to make it look legit.”

John watched his son paw through a box that was partially covered by a pair of old chairs. “Did Allen know about this place?”

“Nope. Just me and Stan.”

“Not that it matters now,” John observed. “I’m glad he’s out of the picture.”

“Here,” Toby said, pulling both hands from the box and holding the twin cylinders out for his father to see.

“They’re so small.”

Toby nodded. “He asked how big we wanted them. I told him as small as they could be and still do the job.”

Barrish gave an approving smile. “You did so good while I was away, Toby. Real good.”

“Just carrying on, Pop.”

The elder Barrish examined the cylinders visually, bending to get a close look.

“Here,” Toby said. “Take one.”

The stainless-steel cylinder was very cold to the touch. “Unbelievable.”

“I know,” Toby said with a smile. “They’ll fit almost anywhere.”

“When is Stanley checking out the test site?”

“Tomorrow,” Toby answered. “He’s got the plans of the unit already.”

“How?”

“He just called and asked,” Toby said, laughing. “He said he was some sort of engineer and needed space for some trouble at an overseas construction project.”

“And they just sent it to him?”

More laughter preceded Toby’s answer. “I mean, it’s not a secret, but the guy didn’t even blink, Stan said. He got the plans yesterday at the P.O. box.”

Barrish smiled and shook his head. “Stanley can do good when he puts his mind to something.”

“He’s a sneaky little guy, Pop.”

“I guess that can be useful.” John turned the cylinder around in his hand, looking closely at the small black cube that capped one end. “What does this do?”

“It’s the release control,” Toby answered, pointing to a recessed switch and a blacked-out digital readout with two tiny buttons beneath it. “The timer is right there, flip the switch, and at the right time it all happens.” Toby chuckled a bit. “We pick the time, and someone else does the dirty work.”

“Who did you choose?”

“Some revolutionary outfit called the New Africa Liberation Front. They advocate some hoo-ha about giving the old slave states to the New Africans .” Toby’s eyes rolled. “Real small in number, but the guys in it have records. Freddy’s AB contacts checked what kind of time they’ve done. All the skills we need, and the proper skin tone.”

“Excellent,” John commented. The foolish Africans were going to do their dirty work, and all that white America would see and hear on TV would be “Black Revolutionaries carried out a heinous attack today…” But that would only be the beginning. The beginning of an end. The beginning of a wake-up call, the first step in showing white America what the Africans’ true self was…with a little help, of course. But the ends justified the means. These ends justified any means. “Absolutely excellent.”

Toby saw the pleasure on his father’s face. He would do anything to make that man happy and proud. But there was still a question before them. “Pop, we’re getting low on cash.”

“We can get more.”

Toby drew in a breath, considering his father’s confident statement for a moment. “We had trouble getting money from him while you were locked up.”

“I’m out now, Toby,” John said with a steely tone. “Monte will have to deal with me again. Besides, it’s not his decision. I’ll straighten him out”

Toby was glad he no longer had to deal with their reluctant benefactor, a man drawn into their fold quite by manipulation, a little willingness, and chance. A chance his father had exploited perfectly.

John handed the cylinder back and gestured at the second one. “One for the money, and two for the show.”

“It’s gonna be a hell of a show, Pop.”

“That it will be,” John agreed, thinking briefly on the spectacle aspect of what they were about to undertake. The opening shot — the test before the show — would captivate the nation, and even the world. It would make those in power nervous. But all that would be dwarfed by what was still to come. The coup de main. To be witnessed live on television, in Moscow, in London, in Tokyo, and, most important, from Maine to Hawaii. The 300 million people who called themselves Americans would have front-row seats, and network play-by-play, as their government was dismantled in one fell swoop. How would they react? John Barrish was betting heavily on what he believed to be the answer. Betting with the confidence of a prophet. “Quite a show, son.”

He had a choice office in the Rayburn House Office Building, one that gave him a commanding view of the west front of the Capitol, and a chairmanship of one of the most powerful committees in the House of Representatives, but Congressman Richard Vorhees would have traded it all to be diving out of a perfectly airworthy C-141B Starlifter into the Uwharrie National Forest once again. Rubbing his left leg, though, as he stared out upon the glistening power center of the United States, he knew that the only battles he would fight were destined to erupt right there. The limb was hard to the touch, though softer than the one he’d had until a few months earlier. Advances in prosthesis design and manufacture made the newer, lighter limb possible, but it would never be close enough to what he had, or what could have been his. A Cuban mine had seen to that as he led his company of 82nd Airborne troops into battle in Grenada so long ago. Ten pounds of explosives and steel. That’s all it took to end an Army career. And to begin one in Washington.

The new wars, Vorhees thought, as he turned his attention back to the Los Angeles Times . It was one of the four papers he read each day, and, like the others, a front-page story in today’s edition chronicled the budget battle over funding of research for a new fighter. Of course such a benign topic would never have made it to page one if there hadn’t been accusations of corruption by the anticipated lead contractor on the project, but that was a lot of bull. Everything was corrupted, the representative from Massachusetts knew. All you had to do was point a finger and you’d be right. He was corrupt. The speaker was corrupt. The president was corrupt. The system was corrupt. It was tit for tat, I’ll do this if you do that. Legalized influence peddling and vote swapping, interrupted every two years by the song and dance needed to get reelected. Vorhees laughed every time he heard the complaints about when an actor came to D.C. to be president, because he knew that getting elected to Congress was the perfect training for a career in acting, something reinforced each time one of them was reelected.