Stephen King - Under the Dome

“It’s a bluff,” Big Jim said.

“Why would I bluff about something so easy to check?” She turned to Randolph. “Call one of your cops and ask them where the big gathering in town is this morning.” Then back to Jim again. “If you shut this down, hundreds of people will know you closed off their view of an event that vitally concerns them. One their lives may depend on, in fact.”

“You had no sanction!”

Barbie, ordinarily quite good at controlling himself, felt his temper fraying. It wasn’t that the man was stupid; he clearly wasn’t. And that was exactly what was making Barbie mad.

“What is your problem, exactly? Do you see any danger here? Because I don’t. The idea is to set this thing up, leave it broadcasting, then clear out.”

“If the missile doesn’t work, it could cause a panic. Knowing something failed is one thing; actually seeing it fail is another. They’re apt to do any darn old thing.”

“You have a very low opinion of the people you govern, Selectman.”

Big Jim opened his mouth to retort—something like And they have justified it time and again would have been Barbie’s guess—but then remembered that a good portion of the town was watching this confrontation on the big-screen TV. Possibly in HD. “I’d like you to wipe that sarcastic smile off your face, Barbara.”

“Are we now policing expressions, too?” Julia asked.

Scarecrow Joe covered his mouth, but not before Randolph and Big Jim saw the kid’s grin. And heard the snicker that escaped from between his fingers.

“People,” the second lieutenant said, “you had better clear the scene. Time is passing.”

“Julia, turn that camera on me,” Barbie said.

She did so.

Dipper’s had never been so packed, not even at the memorable New Year’s Eve show in 2009 featuring the Vatican Sex Kittens. And it had never been so silent. Over five hundred people stood shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, watching as the camera on Joe’s PowerBook Pro did a dizzying one-eighty and came to rest on Dale Barbara.

“There’s my boy,” Rose Twitchell murmured, and smiled.

“Hello there, folks,” Barbie said, and the picture was so good that several people hello ’d back. “I’m Dale Barbara, and I’ve been recommissioned as a colonel in the United States Army.”

A general ripple of surprise greeted this.

“The video deal out here on Little Bitch Road is entirely my responsibility, and as you may have gathered, there has been a difference of opinion between myself and Selectman Rennie about whether or not to continue the feed.”

This time the ripple was louder. And not happy.

“We have no time to argue the fine points of command this morning,” Barbie continued. “We’re going to train the camera on the point where the missile is supposed to hit. Whether or not the broadcast continues is in the hands of your Second Selectman. If he kills the feed, take it up with him. Thanks for your attention.”

He walked out of the picture. For a moment the gathering on the dance floor had a view of nothing but woods, then the image rotated again, sank, and settled on the floating X.Beyond it, the sentries were packing the last of their gear into two big trucks.

Will Freeman, owner and operator of the local Toyota dealership (and no friend of James Rennie) spoke directly to the TV. “Leave it alone, Jimmy, or there’s gonna be a new Selectman in The Mill by the end of the week.”

There was a general rumble of agreement. The townspeople stood quietly, watching and waiting to see if the current program—both dull and unbearably exciting—would continue, or if the transmission would end.

“What do you want me to do, Big Jim?” Randolph asked. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped the back of his neck.

“What do you want to do?” Big Jim responded.

For the first time since he’d taken the keys to the green Chief’s car, Pete Randolph thought he would be quite willing to turn them over to someone else. He sighed and said, “I want to let this alone.”

Big Jim nodded as if to say Be it on your own head. Then he smiled—if, that is, a pulling-back of the lips can be so characterized. “Well, you’re the Chief.” He turned back to Barbie, Julia, and Scarecrow Joe. “We’ve been outmaneuvered. Haven’t we, Mr. Barbara?”

“I assure you that there’s no maneuvering going on here, sir,” Barbie said.

“Bull… pucky. This is a bid for power, pure and simple. I’ve seen plenty in my time. I’ve seen them succeed… and I’ve seen them fail.” He stepped closer to Barbie, still favoring his sore right arm. Up close, Barbie could smell cologne and sweat. Rennie was breathing harshly. He lowered his voice. Perhaps Julia didn’t hear what came next. But Barbie did.

“You’re all in the pot, sonny. Every cent. If the missile punches through, you win. If it just bounces off… beware me. ” For a moment his eyes—almost buried in their deep folds of flesh, but glinting with cold, clear intelligence—caught Barbie’s and held them. Then he turned away. “Come on, Chief Randolph. This situation is complicated enough, thanks to Mr. Barbara and his friends. Let’s go back to town. We’ll want to get your troops in place in case of a riot.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Julia said. Big Jim flapped a hand at her without turning around.

“Do you want to go to Dipper’s, Jim?” Randolph asked. “We’ve got time.”

“I wouldn’t set foot in that whore-hole,” Big Jim said. He opened the passenger door of the cruiser. “What I want is a nap. But I won’t get one, because there’s a lot to do. I’ve got big responsibilities. I didn’t ask for them, but I have them.”

“Some men are great, and some men have greatness thrust upon them, isn’t that so, Jim?” Julia asked. She was smiling her cool smile.

Big Jim turned to her, and the expression of naked hate on his face made her fall back a step. Then Rennie dismissed her. “Come on, Chief.”

The cruiser headed back toward The Mill, its lights still flashing in the hazy, oddly summery light.

“Whew,” Joe said. “Scary dude.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Barbie said.

Julia was surveying Barbie, all traces of her smile gone. “You had an enemy,” she said. “Now you have a blood-foe.”

“I think you do, too.”

She nodded. “For both our sakes, I hope this missile thing works.”

The second lieutenant said, “Colonel Barbara, we’re leaving. I’d feel much more comfortable if I saw you three doing the same.”

Barbie nodded and for the first time in years snapped off a salute.

A B-52 which had taken off from Carswell Air Force Base in the early hours of that Monday morning had been on-station above Burlington, Vermont, since 1040 hours (the Air Force believes in showing up early for the prom whenever possible). The mission was code-named GRAND ISLE. The pilot-commander was Major Gene Ray, who had served in both the Gulf and Iraq wars (in private conversations he referred to the latter as “Big Dubya’s fuck-a-monkey show”). He had two Fasthawk Cruise missiles in his bomb bay. It was a good stick, the Fasthawk, more reliable and powerful than the old Tomahawk, but it felt very weird to be planning to shoot a live one at an American target.

At 1253, a red light on his control panel turned amber. The COMCOM took control of the plane from Major Ray and began to turn it into position. Below him, Burlington disappeared under the wings.

Ray spoke into his headset. “It’s just about show-time, sir.”