Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

“This is Snake-Six actual,” Victoria said into her radio. “We need a medic on the ship—and I mean now .”

Gatlin looked at the bloody ball of gauze as if seeing it for the first time. He frowned. “The bastards blew my fuck-you finger off… It’s down in the DPV. God damn it, what’ll I do now?”

It wasn’t funny, not really, but all of them laughed. And they were still laughing when a perplexed medic came up over the rail. It was only later, after the site was secured, that Victoria allowed herself to think about the dead tankers. She felt the need to cry but didn’t… “Good soldiers never cry.” That’s what her father told her the day she fell off her bike… And there hadn’t been any tears since.

SOUTHEAST TEXAS

More than two months had passed since the disastrous escape attempt. The first two weeks had been spent trying to recover from the severe beating that Sloan had received. The doctor who was brought in confirmed that Sloan was suffering from a concussion and had to put in seventy-two stitches to close all of his cuts.

Sloan had been restricted to his cabin during his convalescence. Now, with cuffs on his wrists and chains on his ankles, Sloan was allowed to make ten circuits around the deck each day. Molly led the way, and Lucy brought up the rear, with her Taser at the ready.

Yes, he might be able to vault over the rail, but what then? It would be impossible to swim without the use of his hands and feet. Plus the Belle Marie ’s cook had orders to dump the galley slops over the side, a practice guaranteed to keep a cadre of alligators close by.

So each day was nearly identical to the last. Get up. Shave. Eat. Exercise. Eat. Listen to the radio. Eat again. Read the newspapers and go to bed. On and on it went until Sloan settled into a never-ending state of depression.

As for why Sloan was being held, that remained a mystery, as were the fates of the other prisoners who came and went. Sloan rarely caught a glimpse of them but assumed that when the Huey arrived, it was bringing a person in or taking one out.

So when he heard the helicopter arrive on the morning of the sixty-fourth day of his captivity, Sloan assumed it was business as usual and saw no reason to interrupt his push-ups. He was halfway through a set of thirty squats when the hatch opened. But, rather than Molly and Lucy, two men entered the cabin. Sloan recognized Flattop and Short Guy right away. Both were armed. “Grab a jumpsuit,” Flattop ordered, “and put it on. You’re going for a ride.”

Sloan felt a stab of fear. Did that mean he was going for a gangster-style ride? Or a real ride? The kind where you’re alive at the other end.

It took a couple of minutes to put on a fresh jumpsuit and a pair of sneakers. “Hold your hands out,” Flattop instructed. There was a click as the cuffs closed.

“You know the drill,” Short Guy said. “Do what you’re told, or we’ll stomp you. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll lead the way.” Sloan had no choice but to follow Short Guy out of the cabin, down to the main deck, and over to the helicopter pad. Shortly after the passengers climbed aboard the Huey, its rotors began to turn, and the chopper took off. It skimmed the treetops for a while and gradually gained altitude. That was when Sloan allowed himself to relax a little. He hoped that the Huey was taking him somewhere to meet with someone. That would be a whole lot better than a bullet in the back of the head.

Time dragged. But eventually Sloan saw farms through the side doors, soon followed by towns and sprawling suburbs. And then, as the helicopter turned, Sloan caught a glimpse of what he recognized as downtown Houston! And there, off to the right, was the skyscraper called Huxton Tower. His duties as Secretary of Energy had brought him to Houston on a frequent basis, and the building was a very visible element of the skyline. It seemed to grow as the chopper closed in on it. Then the high-rise was below them as the Huey settled onto the roof. Finally, Sloan thought to himself. This will be interesting.

The rotors slowed and came to a stop as Sloan was ordered to get out. A short walk took them over to a cube-shaped structure, where Short Guy led the way into a beautifully furnished lounge. There were two elevator doors, and Short Guy pushed the DOWN button. Thirty seconds passed before the lift arrived, and Flattop gave him a nudge. Sloan took the hint.

The doors closed, and Sloan watched a blunt finger push the button labeled 72. They arrived on the seventy-second floor seconds later. The doors opened onto a tastefully furnished lobby, and as Sloan stepped off, he could see the wide-eyed look on the receptionist’s face. Sloan thought that was odd until he remembered that he was wearing handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit! Not something she saw every day.

The receptionist continued to stare at him as she reached for the phone. Sloan couldn’t hear what was said—but the conversation was short. “Take him in,” the woman said, and Sloan was led to a huge door that was embellished with a hand-carved H.

It opened into a large office. Four people were seated at a conference table made out of some exotic hardwood. Sloan could see an executive-style desk, windows, and the cityscape beyond the glass. All of those present turned to look his way, but only one of them rose to greet him. Matt Rankin had a high forehead and partially hooded eyes. “Hello, Sam… I’m glad you made it back from Mexico.” Rankin turned to the security men. “Remove the cuffs and wait outside.”

Sloan had met Rankin before and knew him to be Huxton Oil’s CFO. So what the hell was going on? The cuffs were removed, and the security men left. “Come over to the table,” Rankin said. “I’ll make the introductions. Let’s start with my boss, Fred Huxton.”

Sloan had seen Huxton’s picture on the cover of Time magazine but never met the tycoon face-to-face. He knew that the legendary oilman had taken the small drilling company left to him by his parents and turned it into a global brand. The oil baron had thinning hair and implacable eyes. A walrus-style mustache hid most of his mouth. He made no attempt to rise or to extend a hand. “Welcome to Houston, Mr. Sloan… Or should I say, ‘Mr. President’?”

Sloan frowned. “ ‘Mr. President’? What do you mean?”

Huxton laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned… He doesn’t know! The Yankee bastard is President of the United States, and he doesn’t know!”

Rankin cleared his throat. “I guess you haven’t heard… President Wainwright had a heart attack and died yesterday afternoon. And you , believe it or not, are the next person in line for the presidency.”

Sloan struggled to assimilate it. Wainwright dead… Still another blow to the struggling nation. He was still processing what the president’s death meant when a third man came around the table to shake hands. “I’m Morton Lemaire… I don’t believe we’ve met.”

As Sloan shook Lemaire’s hand, he realized that he was talking to the governor of Florida. “I heard you paddled three hundred miles to get home from Mexico,” Lemaire said. “That took balls.”

Then the only woman in the room rose to greet him. “Yes,” she said, “it did. I’m Maria Perez.” She had black hair, brown eyes, and a firm handshake. Sloan was so dazed that it took him a moment to remember that Perez was the governor of Texas.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sloan said. That wasn’t true, of course, since Perez had been very critical of the president’s energy policies. Especially those related to carbon emissions. Maybe he could convince her to… Then Sloan remembered. The president was dead, and carbon emissions were the least of his worries.