Kenosha looks at the soldiers and wonders if mules might have been a better idea. For a moment he ponders how his ancestors ever lost their land to the white man. Numbers, he knows. Too many men, too much firepower.
Adrenalized by the impending action, Captain Kyle Clancy slaps his horse’s rump with a cowboy hat and catches up with Kenosha at the point. Clancy has ridden before and he is comfortable in the saddle, holding the reins loosely in one hand, letting the other hand dangle at his side. “Whoopee! On a night like this, there’s only one thing better than a good fuck, and that’s a good fight.”
“What is a good fight, captain?”
“One you win, of course. Cutting off the other guy’s nuts before he cuts off yours.” Captain Clancy notes the pistol in Kenosha’s holster. “Lord, what’s that? The barrel must be a foot long.”
“Exactly. The Colt .45 Peacemaker.”
“Peacemaker,” the captain muses. “Just like the Peacekeeper missile.”
“Only this one was made in 1873, the single action army model. It’s signed and numbered, the third one ever made.”
“How the hell did you ever get it?”
Kenosha whispers something to his palomino, then says, “It was bestowed on a member of my family by General Custer.”
“What?”
“At Little Bighorn. To my great-great grandfather. Of course, the general was dead at the time.”
The captain finally gets it. “Why you sly fox! One of your ancestors was in the greatest Indian battle of all time. You son-of-bitches sure kicked Custer’s ass.”
“It was a disastrous victory,” Kenosha says.
“Whadaya mean?”
“It was the humiliation at Little Bighorn that forced Washington to set about a serious war. It was a success for my people only as Pearl Harbor was a success for the Japanese.”
Clancy chews this over for a while. There is more to this Kenosha than he recognized at first. Vietnam. The Silver Star. His past with the colonel. The Indian is not a bad companion for battle, he decides.
David intently scans the security monitors, but there is no movement. He uses the walkie-talkie to check on his sentries, then turns back to James, who still works at the computer. A rifle slung over a shoulder, Rachel keeps a watch on Susan.
James angrily bangs his fist on the console. “It’s no use. I’ve tried every trick in the book. Without the slick password, we’re locked out.”
“Have you prayed for divine guidance?” David asks.
“Hey, Davy, cut the shit. I remember when we were breaking into mainframes and mail-ordering dildoes for our French teacher.”
“Just deliver me the password, James.” David closes his eyes and attempts to conjure up a vision. Only colors come, a bright, runny red that he takes for blood and that same flowing gray that reminds him of a banner blowing in the wind. The images make no sense to him, and he tries to let them go. Still, the notion of the blood stays with him.”
“They will attack soon,” David says, “and blood will flow like a river that has flooded its banks. Unless you come up with the code, we will die without bringing about the New Jerusalem.”
“But we will live forever,” Rachel says. “It is prophesied. You have seen it yourself.”
“I have seen many things,” David says, enigmatically.
“And you cannot separate the visions, can you?” Susan Burns asks, a note of derision in her voice.
“Be still!” David commands.
But she will not. Susan Burns believes she is going to die at David’s hand. To fight him, to stop him from killing so many others, she probes for the weak spot. “You cannot tell the delusions from the visions, the warped dreams from psychic phenomena.”
“Shut up!”
Rachel stands and moves menacingly in front of Susan. “Don’t listen to her, David.”
“You are plagued by doubts, David Morton,” Susan says, taunting him. “Just as you were as a child. Your father built something, something awesome and powerful, and what have you done? You sneak into your father’s house like a vandal spray painting graffiti in a church. Your greatest fears are about to be realized. You are about to fail in the eyes of your father.”
David roars like a wounded beast and yanks the rifle away from Rachel. “Enough! Damn you, I have had enough of your mockery!” He jams the barrel into Susan’s forehead, pushing her back against the wall. She refuses to close her eyes, and instead, glares back at David whose own eyes blaze with maddened fury. “I will not fail! And you will not live to see my glory!”
“Shoot me!” she yells at him. “It won’t change a thing. You’re still not the half man your father was. You’re not half the man he is. He’s beaten you again.”
“My father has nothing to do with this.”
“He made you. He made the missile. You’re both his children. Your brother is the bomb, David. You said it yourself. Your father always loved the bomb more than he loved you. Sibling rivalry, and you came in second.”
“Psychological claptrap!” He switches the safety off and eases his finger onto the trigger. “Sometimes, doctor, a cigar is only a cigar, and a missile is only a missile.”
“When you were a pacifist, you wanted to destroy the bomb to get even with your father. Now you’re trying to destroy it another way, a way that will destroy him. This has nothing to do with Jerusalem or the Bible or anything else.”
“Don’t listen to her!” Rachel screams.
“It’s even your father’s code that baffles you,” Susan says. “It’s his handiwork that has stymied you again.”
“Wrong! My father retired before they added the code,” David says, lowering the rifle. The shadow of a thought crosses his face, and Susan fears she has made a mistake. Realizing now she gave David information he did not have. She wanted him out of control, wanted him raging, turning the gun on her, and then on himself. Instead, he is pondering something, and Susan’s terror is greater than if the gun were still jammed against her head.
David looks at Lieutenant Owens and says, “Wasn’t the S.L.C. added in the last year?”
“Yeah, less than a year ago.”
“James, what about it?”
“Your Pop may have been retired, Davy, but his fingerprints are all over this program, everything from terminology to digital access routes. They must have called him back in as a consultant. I double-damn guarantee you, this is his baby.”
David has forgotten all about Susan. He rushes to James. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t seem—”
“Hush! Let me think. My father came up with the code. I can do this.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to conjure something up, but there’s interference, something kicking around in his brain, something…
“James! What did you say?”
“Huh? Nothing. I’m letting you think or whatever the hell it is you do.”
“No, a moment ago. What did you say?”
James licks his lips and tries to remember. “I said it didn’t seem relevant who designed—”
“No! Before that. You guarantee me… ”
“‘This is his baby.’ That’s all I said. ‘This is his baby.’ Why? Do you see something, Davy? Do you have a vision?”
David Morton smiles to himself. He has no vision. Psychic phenomena are fine when they come, but the bitchy doctor is right. He cannot separate the wheat from the chaff. But this time, he does not need paranormal powers. He needs only memory and logic, and he is thinking very clearly, indeed.
-49-
A Seven-Letter Word