Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

The overhead light dimmed, flickered and died. Everything went dark.

"The beginning," said Holliday, out of the blackness. "Now get us out of these cuffs before it's too late."

The positioning of the first of the tanker trucks beside the shopping center had not been accidental. A hundred feet away, tucked in behind the P amp;C supermarket, was the main substation off the 132-kilovolt grid that powered the entire town of Winter Falls. The eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire was no protection at all from the ANFO bomb and was obliterated during the first seconds after the explosion.

Unfortunately for the residents of the town, the main switching station for Granite State Telephone stood fifty feet from the electrical substation and transformer, and the two nearby cell phone towers on Pine Hill Road were also rendered inoperable. Within an instant almost all methods of communication in Winter Falls were destroyed.

The sound of the explosion even penetrated the hockey arena at the Abbey School, the arched rafters shaking as the pressure wave rolled over the town. Within seconds the Secret Service had begun their standard extraction procedures for the president, but they were startled and more than surprised to find themselves pinned down by what sounded like small-arms fire coming from the woods. The president and his party were taken to the Abbey dressing room, a below-grade concrete bunker where they would be safe.

"Where's the president right now?" Holliday asked as they struggled to find their way through the squad room. Half the ceiling had collapsed and the air was full of plaster dust. They could hear voices and the sound of coughing, but they couldn't see anything. Holliday and Peggy kept close on Chief Lockwood's heels as he followed the wall around toward the entrance to the squad room.

"Hang on," wheezed Lockwood, trying to spit out the cloying, ancient plaster from his mouth. "I'll get a handheld." The policeman reached out blindly, his hand finally finding the rack of charging radios the officers used when they weren't in their cruisers. He hit the ON switch but there was nothing but static. "What the hell?" He hammered the radio set with his palm but there was still nothing. They could hear the sounds of people trapped in the rubble from the fallen ceiling. "Flashlights," said Lockwood numbly. "We need flashlights so we can get these people out of here."

"There's no time!" Holliday insisted. "That was just the start! You think it's a coincidence with the president here?" He clutched at Lockwood in the darkness. "Where would he be?"

"The rink. The Abbey School."

"Where would the Secret Service take him in an emergency? A blackout?"

"Back here." Lockwood said. "His chopper's on a temporary pad in the park."

"We've got to stop him before it's too late," Holliday said firmly. He tugged hard on Lockwood's arm. "Get us out of here. Now."

"There are people injured here. My people. I can't just leave them."

"You can't help them, either. This son of a bitch murdered the Pope and blew up the vice president. He just took out all your lights, power and communications, and I guarantee you, he's not finished yet."

Lockwood stumbled out into the hallway with Holliday and Peggy close behind. Plaster dust hung like a cloud and in the haze shadowy figures made their way to the shattered glass-front door. Finally they stood outside the building in the blowing snow. The entire town was dark except for the headlights of slow-moving vehicles across the park. There was no sign of the presidential motorcade.

"We're going to freeze to death like this," said Holliday, shivering.

"Come on," said Lockwood. He led them down the street that ran in front of the building to a row of shops on the square. Lockwood stopped at the largest one and Holliday read the old-fashioned sign on the front: UNCLE JIMMY'S SPORT PARADISE. Lockwood didn't hesitate. He put his boot through the metal-and-glass-front door, reached in and twisted the lock, then stepped inside. Holliday and Peggy followed. The place was dark and silent, a wide, long, low-ceilinged room divided into aisles. Lockwood found a big twelve-volt lantern and swung the beam around the room. Racks of antlers, a moose head, a stuffed lynx head and a lacquered blue marlin hung from the walls.

Lockwood shone the light down the middle aisle. At its end there was a rack of orange and camo quilted hunting jackets. They followed the policeman down the aisle and each of them pulled on one of the jackets.

"Now what?" Peggy asked.

"Weapons," said Holliday.

"I'm not sure I want you armed," said Lockwood.

"I don't care what you're sure of. I'm not going after Billy Tritt without something with a very large caliber in my hand."

"I could lose my job," said Lockwood.

"I could lose my life."

"Point taken," said Lockwood. "Gun up, I guess."

Holliday chose a secondhand AR-15 with a sling and put it over his back. He stuffed his pockets with magazines, then chose a Mossberg 12-gauge autoloader, crammed five slug shells into the automag and stuffed his pants pockets with twenty more. For a handgun he chose a Colt M1911.45-caliber semiautomatic pistol exactly like the one he'd used in combat from Vietnam to Somalia. He found a web belt with a pouch and loaded half a dozen magazines, while Peggy and Lockwood armed themselves.

"This is like an audition for Rambo Six," Peggy said, choosing a rather unladylike Ruger Blackhawk. "What kind of bullets does this thing use?"

Lockwood had picked a Remington 480 Bushmaster to go along with the Walther on his hip. "Casulls,.454-caliber. You fire that thing, young lady, you be sure to hold it in both hands. He handed her a box of the large shells and she methodically began to load the cylinder.

"Young lady, my ass," she muttered.

"What if the good guys see us wandering around like this?"

Lockwood took out his badge and ID wallet, slipped out the badge and pinned it on the front of the camopatterned hunting jacket. "This will have to do," he said. "Now, what exactly are we looking for?"

"The explosion was a distraction," said Holliday. "It's almost certainly designed to draw away local law enforcement and get the Secret Service to exfiltrate the president. That means they'll bring him back to the chopper and get him the hell out of here. That's the obvious protocol."

"So you think this Tritt character will be close by?"

"I can almost guarantee it." Holliday nodded. "He'll have night-vision equipment and something big enough to bring the helicopter down before it gets very far off the ground. A Stinger or something like it. And that won't be the end of it, either."

"That's not enough?" Lockwood said.

"The whole idea is to create enough chaos to justify Matoon pressuring the White House into declaring martial law. I'm guessing Tritt's got more truck bombs that he's going to let off, probably using some kind of remote detonator."

"Cell and radio are out. How's he supposed to set these things off?"

"Cell phones are out, but satellite phones aren't."

"How do we know this guy if we see him?" Lockwood asked. "My town's being blown to hell and its pitch-dark."

"Look for the guy carrying a surface-to-air missile," said Holliday.

"This is just like the good old days," grunted Lockwood. "Trying to kill an enemy you can't see."

"I hated the good old days," said Holliday.

"Me, too," answered Lockwood. They went out into the cold again.

At the Abbey School the Secret Service had found and routed the half dozen men in phony National Guard uniforms, killing four and wounding two, who were now being held prisoner. The two survivors quickly told the Secret Service about the plan to blow up the entire school with an ANFO bomb, and the president and his entourage were immediately removed from the premises, leaving the evacuation of the other people at the stadium to the local police. Twenty-five minutes after the explosion that had turned out the lights all over Winter Falls the presidential limousine was on its way back to the center of town and the waiting Marine One helicopter.