James Knapp - The Silent Army

A widespread, legitimate organization was possibly assisting terrorists. Revivors were being created with no shelf life, no weapons, and no cosmetics. Several had been rigged with bombs to strike soft targets and destroy evidence, and all indications were that Fawkes intended to detonate multiple nuclear weapons inside the city. It all spelled big trouble.

Hell of a night, Wachalowski. It was Alice Hsieh. She was sliding into Sean’s role almost too easily.

Yeah.

Three clinics bombed on the same night. The streets had already been crawling with police, and now the National Guard was moving in, this time padding their ranks with Stillwell Corps soldiers rather than revivor units. So far nothing concrete had leaked, but the media was beginning to speculate and the tension level was rising out there. Fear and a lot of anger had begun to brew.

Any evidence of revivors at the second site? I asked.

They didn’t find any, but they’re still looking.

Footage piped over appeared in a new window. All three places had burned to the ground. At the remains of the Healing Hands clinic, a camera focused on the remains of a large dentist’s chair with a twisted mechanical arm attached. It was the same as at Rescue Mission.

We got word back on that maritime ID you sent over. It was the KM Senopati Nusantara , an Indonesian tanker.

Was?

It disappeared close to a year ago on the open sea. The official report indicates it was likely pirated.

They never recovered it?

Never. The transponder went silent, and it was never picked up, even on a satellite sweep. It was presumed sunken. The shipyard put in an insurance claim, and six months ago they collected.

If Sean’s last message had any truth to it, though, then the ship was still intact and somewhere in UAC waters. Somewhere close.

How long you going to let Buckster stew?

I’m waiting for my operative.

You hit your head pretty hard last night. You sure you’re up to this?

I’m sure.

Outside the glass wall where I stood, people moved quickly past, heads ducked down against the rain. They moved behind the small window containing the JZI image, disappearing, then reemerging on the other side as they trudged by. I spotted Zoe in the crowd as she stepped out of the flow and started toward the front entrance.

She’s here. We’re on our way up.

I cut the connection. Zoe shuffled toward the entrance, looking half asleep.

Damn it, Zoe …

Even from a distance I could tell she’d been drinking. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. The dark circles were back. She trudged forward, staring out from under the rim of her umbrella like she was marching to the slaughter. When she saw me, she wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“Zoe, this way,” I said. Her eyes were shiny as she closed the distance between us.

“You okay?”

“Can we just get this over with?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

“Yes. His name is Leon Buckster. He’s the head of one of the local Second Chance chapters.”

She nodded.

“Just follow my lead, but work inside the reference I gave you.”

“Fine,” she said, “and before you say it, yes, I’m sure. I know what I look like and I know what you’re thinking, but I can do this.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

She followed me to the interrogation room where Buckster sat, looking down into a paper coffee cup. He wasn’t happy.

“Mr. Buckster,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting like that. My name is Nico Wachalowski, and this is Zoe Ott.”

He gave my hand a firm shake, then held it out to Zoe. When she didn’t take it, he leaned back into his chair with his palms on the table. He noticed the lacerations on the left side of my face from the explosion, but he didn’t ask about them.

“I’m here to help,” he said. “Kind of like to know what this is about, though. Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“I want to talk to you about Second Chance.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Second Chance? What for?”

“You’ve heard of the Rescue Mission Clinic?”

“Yeah I’ve heard of it.”

“Healing Hands? Mercy Medical?”

“Yeah, they’re free clinics we run downtown. What is this about?”

“When was the last time you were in contact with any of these facilities?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks ago?”

Galvanic skin response indicated curiosity and some stress, but it didn’t look like he knew about the bombing.

“Do you know what sort of work goes on there?”

“Yeah, they offer quality medical care to third tier citizens who otherwise can’t afford it,” he said.

His GSR jumped while he talked. The topic of Rescue Mission had him tense.

“Anything else?”

“They’re authorized to distribute methadone. They do basic blood work, mostly AIDS testing. Aside from that, it’s mostly handing out antibiotics and the like. Why is the FBI interested in a bunch of free clinics? The paperwork for the drug treatment program—”

“It’s all in order, Mr. Buckster. That’s not why you’re here.”

“Then if you don’t mind Agent, why am I here?”

“The Rescue Mission, Healing Hands, and Mercy Medical clinics were all bombed late last night.”

“What?”

“The facilities were completely destroyed.”

His shock looked genuine, but there was something else underneath it. He was shocked but not completely surprised. He knew something about those places, something he was hiding.

“That’s impossible,” he said.

“Impossible?”

“I just mean …why would—”

“Do you recall the Concrete Falls bombing, Mr. Buckster?”

“Of course.”

“The bomb that destroyed the Rescue Mission facility was of similar, if not identical, makeup. We have found links between the attack at Concrete Falls and your medical centers—”

“Hey, they’re not my medical centers. I’m just—”

“You’re the head of a local Second Chance chapter that covers Bullrich as well as Dandridge. We’ve combed security archives that put you coming and going from each of these facilities as early as three days ago. Are you sure you don’t want to change your story, Mr. Buckster?”

His face fell a notch. I reached into my jacket and pulled out an envelope containing two photographs. One was the photo of Henry Uris alive, and the other was the image of Henry Uris’s revivor lying on the gurney. I dropped them both on the desk in front of him.

He looked down at the gray face. Black fluid had pooled in the socket of its missing eye.

“You were caught on a surveillance camera at the Brockton-Stark train platform, talking to that man,” I said. He didn’t say anything, but he recognized the face.

“I want my lawyer.”

I held up a card with the number I’d pulled from the phone system, the one with no name attached.

“Who does this number belong to?” I asked.

“Never seen it.”

“It was registered to the SCO, run by the organization Second Chance. Who used it?”

“How the hell should I know? You want to search our records, get a court order.”

“I will. You’re lying, Mr. Buckster. Right now I have you tied to three separate acts of domestic terrorism; that’s enough to put you in the ground.”

“I had nothing to do with that! I said I want my lawyer!”

“No,” Zoe said. When I turned to her, she was staring down at him, eyes filled with tears.

“What the hell do you mean, no?” he asked. She glared at him, and her pupils went wide. A moment later, Leon’s eyelids got heavy, and he slumped in his chair.