Through the small window he could only see some distant flashes, a vibrating redness imitating the sunset. He ran to the bedroom. And what he saw while breathing out vapor stains on the wall made his legs weak.
Fires had been lit. There three, four blazing from the tops the roofs and through many windows he could see yellow and red tongues. Under the siren’s cry, despite being distant, rifle gunshots and even grenade explosions could be heard. In the eye of hat small hell tenths of black human shapes moved about.
He bit the side of his hand. There was a battle, down there. But who? The answer penetrated his head like a needle: the revolutionaries. He was witnessing an attack to Camp 9, an operation that had been organized long ago and with great attention to detail. But how was it possible that the NMO had been blindsided?
The continuous, obsessive sound from the Control was piercing his brain. It wasn’t the right moment to thing about how they had come to that. They needed to do something about it, and quick.
Another explosion, this time stronger. Beyond the trees circumscribing the parking lot, now, vivid flames rose, pillars of black smoke on top of them. Some vehicle had been blown up. Giovanni had never received any instructions on what to do in case of an armed assault. One idea came forward in the confusion of his mind: he needed to isolate himself. He needed to prevent anyone unauthorized to get in the Tank. Because it was the target. Camp 9 wasn’t, from a tactical-military point of view. The many hearts of the NMO, the ones pulsating with deadly armaments, where others, elsewhere. The attack had no other goal than to conquer the Tank, seen as a symbol of the Order’s power on life and death.
We are many… and we are ready…
The words of that revolutionary crawled out of his memory and, like the blue, acid spitting anaconda, injected him the venom of fear. He had to move.
He rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a chair and dragged it out of the apartment. One of the lean metal legs got stuck in the door for a second. Giovanni freed it with a kick and a curse. His organism was now producing adrenaline at full regime. He went to the elevator and pressed the call button. Never like in that moment the slowness with which the cabin went up had been so exasperating and, from the noises echoing in the vertical tunnel, he feared that the cables were about to snap. It was just his imagination, he was sure. But he couldn’t avoid grinding his teeth and growl like a trapped beast.
As soon as the clangor stopped and the doors opened, he pushed the chair forward and positioned it between the photocells, preventing the doors from closing. A simple solution, but an efficient one.
The other possible way in was the Escape. But that – if they couldn’t manage to get their hands on the right key – was safe.
(Are you sure? Do you really think that a couple of bullets to the lock wouldn’t solve the problem?)
He realized he was thinking in a confused way, but he wasn’t surprised. The incessant beep echoing in the Control and running through the Ring was dazing him. How long would it go on? Until he turned it off, of course. The message had been received, so he went back in and switched the alarm off. It was like suddenly putting is head in a tin bucket. The reverberating silence falling on his almost made him stumble.
(You’re not going to pass out now, are you?)
But the effect produced by that sudden acoustic interruption lasted just a few seconds, because from the outside the noises of battle had become louder. Nearer.
He ran to his bedroom, catching a glimpse of the mute TV in the kitchen.
A man was flying over a mountain valley on a hang-glider. A glider on which to run away, get to safety…
But it would be a great act of cowardice. However scared he might be, he would never be a coward. “I am the NMO”, he said, but he almost didn’t recognize his own voice.
Looking out the window he immediately noticed how far the fire was spreading and how much smoke was expanding, intoxicating the red and purple clouds on the horizon. The gunshots went on. How many were already dead? Instead of the entry gate, he could now see a large, smoldering space opening Camp 9 to the outside world. There were lots of people going in and out, running, curved, burdened with weapons, rucksacks, bags. There were really lots of them.
Giovanni looked up to the sky, a dark expanse filled with shadows from which very few stars met his gaze. He could do nothing but wait. Hw could only watch the events unfold, hoping they would go for the better; and get ready to face any threat to him and the Tank.
He touched the holiest with one hand. The Beretta FS 83.9 was still there, ready for the fourth and last daily delivery, which had been canceled for circumstances beyond his control. There were fourteen rounds inside the magazine. He would be better off getting the second one, too. He went back to the Control, opened the drawer where he usually locked the pistol in and found what he was looking for. He opened the small packet and put its content inside the pocket of his shirt, right above the heart.
Then he went back to he window.
He was left out of breath. He sucked in with a pound noise, as if he had a snorkel between his teeth.
A mass of armed people – on foot or jeeps – was walking towards the Tank. There were about a hundred. A confused clamor accompanied them. They would be there in a minute or so.
The foolish idea of throwing a cauldron of boiling oil on them came spontaneously, like a horrid multicolored flower, from the fertile soil of his fantasy. He whispered a prayer, grinding them with his nervously chattering teeth.
(“Aren’t you afraid?”)
Yes, general. I really am…
They couldn’t see them from that distant, but his instinct made him move away from the window. A good shooter with a good rifle could work miracles, had he spotted him.
What could they do? That was his doubt. He didn’t know what resources they had nor their intentions. The only thing he was sure about is that if they reached him, they would unleash all the hatred they were brooding who-knows-how long, not caring about him being nothing but an executor. On the other hand he couldn’t appeal to sacred duty of obedience like the soldiers in Nuremberg during the previous century. He was a civilian who had chosen to apply for that job and fought to get it; if he got caught by the revolutionaries, he would have no right to ask them for mercy.
He went back to the Ring, gun in hand and blood running from the lip he was biting.
He tried to think about it. First, they would try with the main entrance. And when they realized the cabin was unavailable, what would they do? Was it worth it to try forcing the elevator door, maybe using a bomb? No. They would simply reach a dark shaft with the only perspective of needing to climb the steel cables like monkeys.
They no doubt knew (and there were many things they probably knew, considering what they had managed to do) that on the side of the Tank there was a ladder, hanging from the concrete, leading almost to the top…
They could climb only one at a time, and any bulky weapon would be an hindrance; after reaching the top and opening it, they wouldn’t be able to burst in all together. It made him think of the Thermopylae and with an ironic hiccup he swallowed some blood.
He moved away from the elevator – still open, with the chair has its steadfast sentinel – and, ignoring his own reflection on the glass of Shutter, he reached the Escape. Alex had gotten in from there using a copy of the key. The people outside (the revolutionaries) had likely gotten their hands on one, too; he momentarily holstered his Beretta, took his keys out of his pocket and looked for the right one, then took it out of the keychain. He then put it into the lock and turned it a little to prevent other keys from pushing it out.