Jack Chalker - A War of Shadows

It took a little pressing to get the full story from the distraught man, and when they got it they were all a little upset.

“She must have decided they couldn’t wait for the deadline,” Edelman said. “Not unless she wanted to kill you. So they’re gone. In action with what they could take. The mean of the true fanatic, I guess.”

Sam Cornish still couldn’t believe it. “But—we were had and she knew it! Those phony Air Force and State Troopers—they weren’t phony. Camp Liberty—hell, I bet those jets I saw so regular overhead were official flights. I bet it’s in Nevada or something!”

Edelman smiled. “You guessed a lot, didn’t you? I think maybe you’d better give us what you can on the other people so we can stop them if possible. Then you’re coming with me.”

“Hey, inspector!” one of the agents called. Edelman turned. “You won’t believe this, but in this briefcase is everyplace they’re going to strike!” the agent said. “God! They didn’t even bother to take the stuff with ’em or destroy it.”

Sam Cornish nodded slowly. “Wasn’t any use,” he said. “Suzy knew they weren’t long for this world after the mission”

For the next hour and a half they went over descriptions while the place was dusted. Before Edelman and Cornish reached Washington again, the bureau’s computers had already made eight of them.

Edelman stopped only long enough to call in. There was a message from Hartman, but he could only tell the other man to take it on his own. Somewhere in or nearing Washington right now were ten terrorists armed with the Wilderness Organism, nine who thought they were immune and a tenth who was so fanatical she would go on with it anyway.

“She’s spent her whole life in the revolutionary movement,” Sam explained. “One of the tenets of the faith was that you induced a repressive fascism as the setup for revolution. I guess if you really believe that shit you might do what she’s doing, even though you know you’re a fascist tool.”

Edelman nodded agreement. “She just was too much of a true believer in her own peculiar brand of religion. But—she loved you, Mr. Cornish. Loved you enough to save you when she knew she had to die.”

Sam Cornish’s face was sad, and there seemed a distant look in his eyes. He turned slowly to Edelman and said, “Can I go with them to Suzy’s target? I—I’d like to be there. Maybe I…”

Edelman nodded. “I’ll take you there. She’s to board the Metro at Connecticut and Calvert, and ride it out to Glebe Road in Arlington. She has only the one spray, and it’s got to look like hair spray or something to get by the checkpoints. She’ll spray the train and station. The best time would be just before rush hour, or possibly during it. After four—which gives us a little over fifteen minutes.” He paused, a thought rising in his mind. “You don’t suppose she’ll vary the plan? Get on elsewhere?”

Cornish was positive. “No, not Suzy. Once the plan was made and rehearsed, she followed it to the letter, always.”

By the time they made the station, several other things had been accomplished. The partial prints and Sam’s descriptions had been computer matched and they knew the identities and general appearances of all of them now, along with their targets. Additionally, while the station was open, Metro trains were ordered to skip it. The crowds were backing up, but the soldiers at the station checkpoints looking at ID cards had kept things even slower.

“If she sees you she might not use the spray,” Edelman said hopefully. “We’ll see. We have to take the chance. Too many people down there to do a general shootout unless it’s the last resort.”

“Worth a try,” Cornish said, his nerves tensing, stomach tight.

Behind them, special Army trucks were pulling up, and men climbed into strange looking suits like spacesuits and checked out nasty-looking tanks with insulated hoses terminating in what looked like single-barrelled shotgun housings.

Now Edelman and Cornish joined a group of FBI and DC police personnel for the walk down into the station.

The well-lit station was spacious and clean under the monitors of Metro security. The station itself was a distinctive work of architecture, cool and efficient. While the field agents continued on into the gathering crowd, Edelman pulled his charge over to one of the security booths. “Let’s see if we can pick her up on the circuit first,” he said, adding ominously, “If it’s clear she’s already started any spraying or is about to, the flamethrowing team will come in full force. Remember that.” Cornish nodded but said nothing.

The cameras started their sweep, the technician adjusting so that the faces of many of the people could be seen. They were looking for lone female figures of small stature, and they found several, but Cornish shook his head “no” to each as they looked. Finally they reached all the way down to the end of the platform, where, off by herself, a slight female was reading a paper, a standard shoulder purse suspended from a strap around her neck.

“Hold that one!” Cornish ordered. “Can you blow it up a little more?”

They tried, but as long as the newspaper was up little could be seen but the top of long, reddish-brown hair. Suzy’s was short and jet black, but she’d brought wigs while in Westminster. The big man stared hard, praying that it was she, not quite understanding his own feelings at this point, nor even why he’d insisted on coming along, participating in the crackdown. He wasn’t sure what he’d do it if was Suzy behind that paper. He could only wait and hold his breath, while the other cameras continued to pan and the security and police teams mingled below, trying to get a make on her.

Two figures walked, hand-in-hand, along the sidewalk next to the Congressional Office Building. They looked like two lovers out enjoying a break from whatever routine they normally followed. They turned a corner, and someone with a walkie-talkie in the part just across the street whispered, “It’s a make. Go!”

Men and women armed with automatic weapons seemed to pop out of every place at once. A bullhorn barked, “You on the corner! Stop and put both hands in the air!”

The couple broke apart, and the man reached into the woman’s bag for something as both dropped as one to the sidewalk. It wasn’t good enough. From all over hundreds of rounds poured into them, making in split seconds an awfully bloody mess. Now figures in the white pressure-suits moved up, a confirmation was made on what remained of the dead, and it was noted that there were several holes in the leather purse. One of the suited figures reached in and pulled out a metal object looking much like an ordinary can of shaving cream complete with brand name and trademark. There was a nick in it, but it looked unopened and undamaged. A bomb-disposal truck was called, and the can was placed inside. They were about to clear the mess when they noticed a slight bulge under the man’s coat. They opened it to see two small pressurized cylinders strapped to his underarms, and long, thin plastic tubes running down the sleeves. There was no way to tell quickly if the stuff was on.

They stood back and bathed the dead bodies and most of the street corner until it was ablaze with white-hot liquid fire.

The National Visitor’s Center used to be the train station when trains were the chief mode of transportation; it still was for some, a center for commuter trains and high-speed megalopolis runs. Out of one train from Baltimore stepped a hesitant young woman, looking nervously around. She got three steps off the platform when figures moved in back of her, grabbing her arms while one shot an injection that knocked her cold. The jets, fed by two small cylinders worn under her blouse and shooting downward to the ground, had obviously not been activated.