“You’ll have to agree,” Grafton said slowly, “not to do any stories at all until this is completely over.”
Tarkington’s grin faded.
“That’s the only condition?” the reporter asked incredulously. “You don’t want to comment on the story?”
“No. Just don’t print anything until this is all over.”
“No catch, eh?” Yocke said, still skeptical. Actually, all he wanted was a ride to L’Enfant Plaza. He sat now slightly stunned at Jake Grafton’s willingness to go along with his spur-of-the-moment proposal. What was that old rule of thumb — if you ask ten women to go to bed with you, you’ll only get your face slapped nine times?
“We can always let you out at the next corner,” Toad told him sourly.
“Captain, you got a deal.”
“Umm.”
“What’s happening now?”
“Some gunmen opened fire in the Metro Station at L’Enfant Plaza. Lot of people down, some of them soldiers. A real bloodbath.”
“Colombians?”
“I don’t know.”
Yocke fished his notebook from an inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. As he scribbled and the car jolted, Toad said, “It’s T-A-R-K-I-N-”
“I got it, Frog. What’s your hometown?”
“Intercourse, Pennsylvania.”
“Dry up, you two,” Jake Grafton said, and held the walkie-talkie to his ear.
He was going to have to mention this little arrangement to General Land at the first opportunity. But he thought the general would approve. Just this afternoon the subject of the presidential commission had arisen, forced to the fore by a request from Congresswoman Strader for a military district headquarters pass, which was granted. The career officers who had been watching Ms. Strader’s act for years suspected that she would be diligently searching for butts to kick at a postmortem later on, when both she and her colleagues would have the luxury of hindsight to enhance their wisdom. Alas, being second-guessed by Monday-morning quarterbacks went with the job.
When he saw Jack Yocke jumping up and down on the sidewalk, it occurred to Jake Grafton that it just might help to have an independent observer keep Ms. Strader et al. from playing fast and loose with the facts.
Jack Yocke was young and brash, but Jake Grafton had been reading the articles on Cuba and he was impressed. Yocke was a good reporter. He was observant and cared about people, and he could express himself well. He just needed seasoning. And a good reporter, Jake believed, would know a fact when he tripped over one. Yocke would do nicely.
These thoughts occupied Jake Grafton for about ten seconds, then he returned to the business at hand, a terrorist incident at a subway station. The general in charge was giving orders on the radio to the officer at the scene to storm the place as soon as possible. That struck Jake Grafton as logical. If these were suicide commandos like those who had shot up the Capitol building, the sooner they were killed the fewer the number of innocent people who would die.
The driver brought the car to a halt outside the main entrance to L’Enfant Plaza and the occupants jumped out and trotted toward a huddle of soldiers by the doors. The major general, Myles Greer, was conferring with a major. Jake could hear the sound of gunshots through the door, the ripping of automatic weapons fire. “How long?” General Greer asked.
“Another two minutes. I’ve got three men at the west entrance and I want ten there.”
General Greer glanced at Grafton, who met his eyes. Greer had a tough decision to make and Jake Grafton knew it. And he was not about to use his position as General Land’s liaison to influence that decision. The choice was simple and brutaclass="underline" more soldiers meant more firepower, and the more firepower one accumulated, the fewer soldiers one was likely to lose. On the other hand, the shots they were hearing were being fired by the terrorists at unarmed civilians, and every second of delay meant that more of those civilians would die.
It took Greer about three seconds. “Let’s go now,” he said. The major gestured to the army lieutenant in battle dress and used the walkie-talkie.
Grafton spoke to the general, a question so soft that Jack Yocke almost missed it. “You got the subways stopped?”
Apparently satisfied with the answer, Grafton turned to two soldiers who were standing to one side. “You guys going to guard the doors?”
“Yessir.”
“Gimme your rifle.”
The young enlisted man looked toward his sergeant, who nodded. Toad Tarkington relieved another man of his weapon.
“I’m going with you,” Yocke said.
Grafton didn’t argue. The soldiers were moving out, the lieutenant in the lead. “Stay between me and Toad,” Grafton said over his shoulder to Yocke as he trotted after them.
The men ran along a corridor of shops empty of people. The Army had already evacuated them. The corridor twisted and made several ninety-degree bends. The running men spread out, their weapons at the ready.
The sounds of gunfire were louder. As the corridor came to another bend the men came upon a soldier lying prone, his rifle covering the blind corner.
The lieutenant used hand signals. When his men were ready he leaped around the corner and two men followed him. Then the others, cautiously.
They were facing an open double door, and beyond it, escalators down. The popping of gunfire was louder, made painful by the echoes from the concrete walls.
At the head of the escalator the sergeant opened fire on an unseen target below. He was firing single shots.
A spray of bullets from below showered sparks off the overhead and shattered one of the neon lights.
The sergeant fired a fully automatic burst, then charged down the escalator. Two men followed.
The lieutenant eased up, took a quick look, and with a gesture to the men behind him, followed.
Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington, with Yocke between them, followed the soldiers.
The first dead gunman lay twenty feet beyond the end of the escalator. An Uzi lay beside him. Around him were seven more bodies. Jack Yocke paused and watched as Jake Grafton went from body to body, checking for signs of life. Three men and four women. Several lay in little pools of blood. One of them had crawled for ten or twelve feet, leaving a bloody streak. As Grafton felt for the pulse of the last person he shook his head, then went off after the soldiers, keeping low. Yocke followed.
They were on a wide pedestrian walkway now, with the ceiling arching high overhead.
The walkway ended in a T-intersection, with walkways going right and left. The soldiers split up, running both ways. Jake Grafton looked over the edge, then ducked as bullets spanged pieces out of the chipped concrete.
Jack Yocke fell flat right where he was. The gunfire rose to a crescendo, then ceased. Yocke lay still in the sudden silence, waiting, his heart hammering.
Finally the reporter looked around. Toad was squatting nearby with his rifle at the ready. He was listening. Grafton was nowhere in sight.
Toad began to move.
Yocke followed him. They went to the rail and cautiously looked over. Grafton was below on one of the station platforms, listening to the Army lieutenant talk on the radio. Bodies lay scattered about. As they stood there looking at the carnage, Yocke heard the pounding of running feet behind him.
He dropped flat. Then he looked. Medics wearing white armbands displaying a red cross ran by carrying stretchers.
“Let’s go down there,” Yocke suggested. Toad shrugged.
Jake Grafton was sitting on the concrete with his back to a pillar, his rifle across his lap. If he noticed Yocke he gave no sign.
“Any of your guys hurt?” Yocke asked the lieutenant, who was assembling his men.
“One. Flesh wound. But two National Guardsmen charged in when the shooting first started and they got zapped.”