Jack Chalker - A War of Shadows

A young-looking officer, an Air Force captain in full uniform, got off the bus at the Pentagon and showed his credentials. He was carefully checked by the first team and waved on, making his way, courier-style briefcase in hand, across the inner parking area toward one of the entrances. A check-point sergeant, after waving him on, lifted his walkie-talkie and said a few words.

As the captain neared the last rows of cars, figures popped up all around him, weapons pointing directly at him from all directions. He stopped, looked completely around, saw there was no way out, then smiled, shrugged, and put up his hands, the brief-case, unopened, still in his right hand.

The frail, elderly woman in the wheelchair being pushed by a younger man up to the entrance of the Sheraton Washington looked terribly harmless. The man, however, met all but one of the criteria the personnel on guard had on the people they were looking for; he was clean-shaven, but moustaches are easily removed. They decided to take no chances. Armed men and women popped out of the bushes and nearby cars.

The man looked confused and let go of the wheel-chair. The old woman started rolling downhill, and, as she did so, a couple of the cops moved to stop her. Quickly the blanket fell, revealing a submachine gun with which the “old woman” opened fire. Also unmasked were two bologna-shaped modules on either side of her in the chair, aimed slightly down.

Two men in white pressure-suits suddenly popped up just in front of her and, as she tried to shift the submachine gun to them they opened up with liquid fire. Back near the hotel entrance, the younger man stood frozen, then slowly raised his hands in the air. There was fear on his face and panic in his voice as he screamed, “I haven’t triggered it! Don’t burn me!

For God’s sake, don’t burn me!”

And so it went across the city. Some were uglier than others, needing extensive flamethrowing, then sanitizing and scientific teams from the Bureau of Standards to determine that none of the Wilderness Organism were loose, and a few innocent bystanders were caught in the mess as some of the terrorists surrendered and others resisted to the death.

“It’s Suzy,” Cornish said softly as the woman lowered the newspaper a bit. There was no mistaking her now.

He and Edelman walked down to the platform, and were joined by several others as they made their way toward the far end. Calls were already going out to stop all westbound trains, and slowly soldiers moved in to start clearing away the people already down there.

Suzanne Martine was a survivor. She smelled the wrongness and felt the danger even before she saw anything to justify it. Still, she was calm, folding the newspaper and putting it on the bench carefully before casually looking up and around.

She made her hunters easily; they were the only people moving toward her. She went through the various options quickly as she continued to pretend that she hadn’t seen them, picked the one that seemed most likely to provide some sort of chance, and walked slowly over to the edge of the platform.

Pistols came out, and the men and women of the authority she hated so much started running toward her.

“Suzy! No! Don’t!” she heard a familiar voice scream, and for a split-second she hesitated, seeing Sam. Then, suddenly, as the first shots started, she jumped down onto the trackbed, managing somehow to keep her balance, and ran into the tunnel as shots ricocheted around and near her.

Sam Cornish got to the edge, turned to Edelman, and said, “Please! Let me go!”

The Chief Inspector thought for a second, then nodded. “Okay, son,” he said, “but flame squads will be at both ends. Talk her out or I won’t be able to stop them.” Again the split-second hesitation, then he reached into his jacket and brought out his .38. “Take this.”

Sam stared at the pistol for a second, as if he’d never considered the possibilities before. Then he took it, turned, and jumped down onto the track bed. “Watch that third rail!” somebody shouted, but he was gone into the darkness.

He was a tall man of about forty-five, in a brown suit and yellow shirt with brown-and-yellow striped tie, horn-rimmed glasses, and the look of a successful business executive.

He’d received a call from one of Edelman’s team on some breakthroughs, and since actions were still in progress they’d requested that he come over there to get the information. He needed and was entitled to it; Allen Honner was the President’s Chief of Staff.

A sleek, black car passed the east gate checkpoint at the White House and rolled up to the entrance. The two men inside looked like what they were: career FBI types. One got out, nodded to Honner, and opened the rear door for him. He got in without hesitation, and the agent, picking up a briefcase from the front seat, switched around and got in next to him.

The car started off, passed back out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and turned right toward the FBI Building.

Honner was confident and interested. “I’ll be having a late dinner with the President,” he told the agent beside him. “I’ll need all you’ve got. You know there’ll be a meeting on the fifteenth on the status and need for the emergency, and a speech on the conclusions reached there on the sixteenth.”

The other man nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I expect we’ll have most of this case wrapped or on the way to cleaning up by late this evening.”

Honner glanced around. “Hey! Wasn’t that the Hoover Building we just passed?” he asked, suddenly disturbed.

The other man shrugged it off and reached into his briefcase. “Don’t worry about it. We’re not going to the Bureau. Too many leaks there. We need absolute privacy for this.”

The Chief of Staff seemed a little upset, and he started to press the matter when the agent’s right hand came out with a small pistol with silencer attached and pointed it at him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Honner demanded. “Who are you?”

The agent’s left hand fumbled in the case and emerged with a gas-powered syringe. “I’m a fan of Mickey Mouse,” said the agent, and, pushing the injector against Honner’s buttocks, fired the drug through the Chief of Staff’s expensive brown pants.

A few blocks down they switched to a D.C. police van, which roared off, lights flashing. None of the patrols, sentries, and the like checked it. They turned and headed back along Pennsylvania Avenue, reached the circle, turned onto Wisconsin, and headed into Georgetown, turning the lights off now. Down into the old but fancy original section they drove, finally reaching the spot they wanted, turning into a back alley, and pulling up behind a particular house.

The agent fumbled in Honner’s pockets, got a key ring, and got out. Quickly and efficiently they got the unconscious man out of the van and through the back door of the house. Four other agents, two male and two female, walked down the alley from opposite directions and, one by one, entered the house. The van drove off, to be replaced in the D.C. police garage.

It was a safe house nobody knew, all right. Allen Honner awoke, bound hand and foot, in his own bed.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded. “Who are you that you dare this?”

A thirtyish man in shirtsleeves, looking tired and serious, came up to him. “We’re the FBI, Mr. Honner,” he said dryly. “The part you don’t own.”

Honner’s face showed panic. “You have no right to do this!” he almost yelled at them. “No right at all! Do you realize who I am?”

Bob Hartman nodded slowly. “We know, Mr. Honner. And, yes, we do have the right. You gave it to us. You and whatever others are involved in this. Preemptory arrest of citizens whenever an officer believes there is cause, suspension of habeus corpus, suspension of civil rights. Yes, Mr. Honner. We do have the right. And, thanks to directives coming out of your office, and those of the Justice Department, we may use any and all means of questioning if it is in the interests of internal security. My boss thinks you’re a traitor, Mr. Honner. That gives me the right to break every damned little bone in your body, stuff you with any and all mind-probes, drugs, and other devices, and do whatever I feel like to get the truth.” He smiled evilly. “And I’m not even responsible, Mr. Honner. I’m just following orders.”