“But I’m untouchable,” he replied. “You’re a…”
“A pawn,” she finished for him, supplying the word he wouldn’t use.
“You’re too close. There are people,” Tom Leffler whispered, “who would do anything to lop off Bill Baker’s head. To them, he’s America’s Nero. You’re very close to a very dangerous confrontation. Too close. Far, far too close.”
“I’m going to quit,” she resolved. “I’m going to E-mail them today and inform them that I won’t participate any further in any coup.” She was actually greatly relieved to be getting out of a conspiracy that had caused her feelings of unrelenting guilt.
“Whatever you do, Clissa,” Tom Leffler said, “don’t do that. The moment you cease being useful to them — the moment they question your loyalty even in the least…” He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words to his only daughter. His “Clissa,” a name that had stuck when his darling girl had first tried to pronounce her own name.
“Oh, Beth,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Mom’s not here,” Clarissa said gently. “She’s dead, Dad.”
Tom came to and said, “Do you understand exactly what I’m telling you? Don’t try to back out of the conspiracy! Do everything they say! Don’t change a thing that you’re doing, or…”
His warning trailed off. She took a deep, steadying breath, nodded, and scanned the treeline, the parked cars, the hills across the Parkway.
A sniper could be anywhere.
8
Just after dark on a clear, cold night, Captain Jim Hart had left the storm cellar and gone to check his personal cache of supplies, which he had found undisturbed. He had gotten four large aerosol cans — each with a pistol grip and a three-fingered trigger — and fence cutters and a gas mask. The three-mile trek through rough hills on his still sore ankle had taken almost two hours.
He had then set out on his first mission in a month. It had been a bad sprain, and his ankle still hurt, but he could get around on it with no problem. He could even jog at a decent clip as he had tried on several evenings behind the Lipscombs’ house, mainly just to sweat and get some exercise. But the basic reason that he’d been lying low was that he was comfortable, safe, and warm in the storm shelter, and if he tried to conduct operations from there, he might endanger the Lipscombs.
But Amanda Lipscomb had returned from high school the day before with a valuable report. The Chinese army had begun using the gymnasium as a secure barracks for transiting troops. Hart had reconnoitered the school before the war as part of his inspection of every square meter of his area of operations. Amanda had drawn a layout of the school and of the Chinese deployments there on which Hart would now stake his life. It was time to return to work.
The basketball gym’s locker rooms were shared by the football stadium via a passageway that led under the stadium’s bleachers. Amanda had been a cheerleader and knew the layout well. The stadium was bounded by a cyclone fence, which Hart counted upon to give the Chinese a false sense of security. Obscuring the base of the fence was a thick hedge that would provide Hart cover for his approach.
That approach had been uneventful. Hart lay flat in the bushes beside the fence watching the stadium and grounds through light-amplification goggles. Listening. Trying to sense the presence of any hidden Chinese sentries. There were thirty trucks parked on the opposite side of the stadium guarded by two, two-man foot patrols. The Chinese were low both on gas and on trucks for transportation, so they didn’t risk taking to the roads at night. They instead hunkered down in secure oases like the gym for fear of Hart’s Special Forces comrades. In the morning, engineers swept the roads for mines and patrolled them until the sun went down and they again retreated into lager.
Hart’s senses told him he was all alone. He carefully cut metal strands — one after the other — with the faintest of clicks. He then pulled the fence open toward him to afford himself potentially life-saving egress, but at that moment surviving the night seemed highly unlikely.
He knew he was making a mistake. He’d been inactive for too long, and to make up for lost time he had decided to attack a high-value target. Adding to his haste had been the knowledge that the Chinese would steadily improve their barracks’ defenses. If he struck quickly, he had rationalized — on the second night they’d used the gym — there might still be chinks in their armor. But really he was simply satisfying his urge to kill.
His sole chance for survival was stealth. If a single man raised the alarm or fired a shot, Hart would find himself amid a swarm of enemy soldiers. In order to get out alive he would have to penetrate the hive and kill silently from within. He therefore kept his rifle slung over his back.
When the hole in the fence was large enough, Hart crawled through and rolled into an open culvert. The concrete ditch, meant for drainage, provided cover all the way to the stadium. When he reached the stands, Hart lay low and listened but heard only the sound of his beating heart. If there were patrols, they were few and far between. Hart made his way under the bleachers toward the gymnasium. While still some distance away, Hart saw two men smoking cigarettes in the darkness, standing guard at the locker room doors. They spoke softly, laughed quietly, and stood close together. Killing them became Hart’s first task.
Moving deliberately, he inched his way closer. An opening through the stands led from the playing field to the gym’s locker rooms, but little wind penetrated the high-walled cavern. The hollows underneath the bleachers — like the enclosed gymnasium — would be ideal for the weapon Hart had chosen. He quietly donned his gas mask with night vision goggles worn outside. He rotated the spray can’s safety soundlessly to “on,” twisted the nozzle to “Max. Range,” then proceeded even closer for the kill.
The last few dozen meters took fifteen minutes. At twenty feet, he rested the can on a dusty girder with excruciating care just as a Chinese soldier lit another cigarette. Hart’s goggles dramatically exaggerated the sudden blaze of light, and his breath froze in his chest. But the brilliant flame winked out just as quickly as it had flared. Only the tip of the soldier’s cigarette glowed brightly as he inhaled.
Hart smelled the pungent odor of marijuana. The sentry passed the joint to his buddy with a giggle that was stifled so as not to waste the smoke that filled his lungs.
Hart relaxed. Not only did the stoned soldiers present easy targets, they obviously weren’t expecting any officers or NCOs to drop by. He aimed the can’s crude fixed sights. He was at the limit of the weapon’s rated range. But the two soldiers did him the favor of standing side by side as they shared the joint with their rifles slung over their shoulders.
The cyanide made a high-pressure squirting sound. Both men’s heads recoiled upon being struck by the narrow spit. Hart watched as they frantically wiped their cheeks and mouths, but the liquid had already expanded into a gas. One man fell to the ground sideways like a tall tree. His rifle clattered on the cement. The other clawed at his neck and chest, knelt, sat, curled up, and died.
Hart again inventoried his senses. Again, they told him, he was alone. With the can in hand he rushed to the door. As quickly as he could, he dragged the lifeless lumps into the shadows. The locker room door, he found, was unlocked.
So far, he thought, so good.
He proceeded in total darkness through banks of lockers that glowed an eerie green in his goggles. He stopped by the showers and heard the steady breathing of someone sleeping. Down the next aisle of lockers, a soldier — the interior guard — lay sound asleep on a bench. Hart twisted the nozzle counterclockwise to the center — to “spray”—and walked right up to the man. A quick jet of fine mist caused the sleeping man to cough once before descending into eternal slumber.