“He’s an only child, a loner as a kid,” Hurtgen continues. “Grew up on different military bases, even had an appointment to West Point.”
That draws a murmur from the brass. The Big Board blinks again. Another protest rally. This time David carries a hand-painted sign: “No More Nukes.”
“But he got bounced out after his plebe year,” Hurtgen says.
“It’s no damn wonder, if he was one of those anti-war kooks.”
“No, he could have weathered that flack,” Hurtgen says. “But his father made some calls that got him tossed.”
There is a buzzing behind the group as Professor Lionel Morton zips into the semi-circle of officers in his wheelchair.
“I don’t understand,” General Corrigan says. “You saying his father didn’t try to keep him in the Academy?”
“Just the opposite,” Hurtgen says. “He called—”
“The President!” Professor Morton thunders, and heads turn his way. “The Secretary of the Army, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the heads of the C.I.A., the D.I.A., the Secret Service, and Jesus H. Christ himself if I had his 800 number, because David Morton is a goddam lunatic who should have been locked up years ago.”
BOOK FIVE
Worst Case Scenario
-39-
West Virginny Rules
Jack Jericho is still searching for weapons in the security officers’ quarters when he hears the noise from outside.
Voices.
Too close.
The barracks door squeaks open and bangs shut. Footsteps make the floorboards sing.
“How long we supposed to search for this infidel?” one voice says.
“Until we find him.”
A laugh. “I’ll bet he’s halfway to Canada by now. For soldiers, they did not put up much of a fight.”
The voices grow louder. The two commandos are approaching the security officer’s quarters. “Brother David wants to make an example of this one.”
“What, crucifixion?”
“He has spoken of it. He told Gabriel to build a cross near the silo cap.”
There is a pause, as if both men are thinking about it, visualizing the sight.
“Brother David says he would love to see the general’s face when they bring him a satellite photo with a crucified airman next to a launching missile. Says it should be the new Air Force logo.”
“Dramatics,” one man says. “Always the dramatics.”
Jericho slides the window up and crawls out, dropping six feet to the ground. He flexes his knees and lands gently, keeping his balance. Then he scuttles along the building and through some light underbrush to the nearby mess hall. On his stomach, he does the infantryman’s crawl underneath the temporary wooden building — made permanent by budget cuts — which is raised on concrete blocks.
Once under the building, Jericho lifts a grimy grate from the floor above him. Removing the grate, he hoists himself into the galley, emerging from a dripping grease pit next to an old gas stove.
If filth were a virtue, Jack Jericho would be a saint. He is covered with grime from the exhaust tube, brambles and leaves from the underbrush, and a thick layer of gunk from the grease pit.
Trays of bologna sandwiches sit on a counter. A sizzling vat of oil bubbles away in a French fry cooker. Figuring he’s not going to be alone for long, Jericho stuffs several sandwiches into his pockets and begins searching for weapons. The kitchen knives aren’t sharp enough to cut the bologna, and besides, he still has his Jimmy Lile survival knife. He could use matches, however, already thinking about building a homemade bomb out of a milk carton, Joy liquid soap and cigarette lighter fluid. He’s looking through some drawers when he hears the sweet, soft voice of a little girl.
“There he is, Brother Matthew,” Betsy says.
Jericho wheels around to see Betsy in the doorway. Next to her, a muscular, bearded man wearing a green military t-shirt and camouflage fatigue pants holds a Remington 870 pistol grip, short-barreled shotgun. The barrel is pointed squarely at Jericho’s solar plexus. The sight tightens his gut into a knot.
Betsy is pointing at him. “He said he was my friend, and that Brother David was confused.”
Matthew pats her on the head. “Thank you, child.”
She gives Jericho a sweet smile and skips out the door.
The shotgun still leveled at Jericho, Matthew clicks on a walkie-talkie and says, “We have the infidel.” After a garbled reply, he speaks to Jericho, “I’m supposed to keep you alive, but it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”
Jericho shrugs. For a long time, it wouldn’t have mattered that much to him, either. But now, for a reason he does not completely understand, staying alive — saving Susan and the others — has become paramount. “Do what you have to do. I know I will.”
Matthew takes a step closer. “What’s that in your pockets?”
“Supper. I was getting hungry.”
“Hands behind your head. One move and your guts will be sprayed all over the wall.”
Jericho does as he’s told. “The death penalty for stealing sandwiches? That’s even worse than what they did to Jean Valjean.”
“Who is this John, one of your comrades?”
Jericho allows himself a scornful smile. “You’ve read one book too much and the others too little.”
“Turn around! Face the wall.” Angry now.
Again, Jericho does as he’s told,
“Spread ‘em,” Matthew orders, kicking Jericho’s legs apart. He begins frisking Jericho, opening the snap pockets on his fatigues. He finds a sandwich, pulls it out and tosses it across the room. Another pocket, another sandwich. In a moment, he’ll come across the cellular phone, then the knife, strapped to Jericho’s leg. “What’s this?”
Patting the long pocket on the pantleg, Matthew reaches in and pulls out something, not quite sure what it is. In the split second it takes for him to realize that it’s alive and that it’s head is turning, he has no time to react. The ferret sinks its teeth into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. “Ow!” he screams, jumping back. “Satan incarnate!”
Matthew is off balance as Jericho spins to his left, grabs an iron skillet from the stove, and swings a forehand with a slight uppercut. Matthew sees it coming, brings up the shotgun, but too late. The skillet clanks the barrel, knocking it skyward. A blast tears a hole in the ceiling. Matthew swings the shotgun back toward Jericho who grabs the barrel and yanks hard across his body. The gun flies out of Matthew’s hands and across the room.
Jericho drops to the floor and uses a single leg takedown to bring Matthew to the floor “You wanna wrassle?” Matthew taunts him, slipping out of Jericho’s grasp and spinning into a reverse. He grabs one of Jericho’s elbows, the other hand slips around his waist in the classic referee’s position. A two-point reverse. “I was state champion at 180 pounds,” he boasts. He breaks Jericho down to the floor, banging his head into the floorboards and scraping his ear along the wooden planks, picking up splinters. “You want to go Greco-Roman or freestyle rules?”
Jericho works his left arm free and sends his elbow backwards, bashing it into Matthew’s mouth. The commando spits out blood and a chipped tooth. “West Virginny rules,” Jericho says.
Still sprawled on the floor, they tussle, exchanging punches. Jericho clobbers Matthew with a fist, but the punch glances off his skull. Then, Matthew kicks Jericho away, and both men get to their feet, locking up, again. Wrasslin’ style. They push and shove, trying to get leverage, banging each other against the galley wall, a rack of heavy spoons and spatulas crashing to the floor.