The couple broke apart, and the man reached into the woman’s bag for something as both dropped as one to the sidewalk. It wasn’t good enough. From all over hundreds of rounds poured into them, making in split seconds an awfully bloody mess. Now figures in the white pressure-suits moved up, a confirmation was made on what remained of the dead, and it was noted that there were several holes in the leather purse. One of the suited figures reached in and pulled out a metal object looking much like an ordinary can of shaving cream complete with brand name and trademark. There was a nick in it, but it looked unopened and undamaged. A bomb-disposal truck was called, and the can was placed inside. They were about to clear the mess when they noticed a slight bulge under the man’s coat. They opened it to see two small pressurized cylinders strapped to his underarms, and long, thin plastic tubes running down the sleeves. There was no way to tell quickly if the stuff was on.
They stood back and bathed the dead bodies and most of the street corner until it was ablaze with white-hot liquid fire.
The National Visitor’s Center used to be the train station when trains were the chief mode of transportation; it still was for some, a center for commuter trains and high-speed megalopolis runs. Out of one train from Baltimore stepped a hesitant young woman, looking nervously around. She got three steps off the platform when figures moved in back of her, grabbing her arms while one shot an injection that knocked her cold. The jets, fed by two small cylinders worn under her blouse and shooting downward to the ground, had obviously not been activated.
A young-looking officer, an Air Force captain in full uniform, got off the bus at the Pentagon and showed his credentials. He was carefully checked by the first team and waved on, making his way, courier-style briefcase in hand, across the inner parking area toward one of the entrances. A check-point sergeant, after waving him on, lifted his walkie-talkie and said a few words.
As the captain neared the last rows of cars, figures popped up all around him, weapons pointing directly at him from all directions. He stopped, looked completely around, saw there was no way out, then smiled, shrugged, and put up his hands, the brief-case, unopened, still in his right hand.
The frail, elderly woman in the wheelchair being pushed by a younger man up to the entrance of the Sheraton Washington looked terribly harmless. The man, however, met all but one of the criteria the personnel on guard had on the people they were looking for; he was clean-shaven, but moustaches are easily removed. They decided to take no chances. Armed men and women popped out of the bushes and nearby cars.
The man looked confused and let go of the wheel-chair. The old woman started rolling downhill, and, as she did so, a couple of the cops moved to stop her. Quickly the blanket fell, revealing a submachine gun with which the “old woman” opened fire. Also unmasked were two bologna-shaped modules on either side of her in the chair, aimed slightly down.
Two men in white pressure-suits suddenly popped up just in front of her and, as she tried to shift the submachine gun to them they opened up with liquid fire. Back near the hotel entrance, the younger man stood frozen, then slowly raised his hands in the air. There was fear on his face and panic in his voice as he screamed, “I haven’t triggered it! Don’t burn me!
For God’s sake, don’t burn me!”
And so it went across the city. Some were uglier than others, needing extensive flamethrowing, then sanitizing and scientific teams from the Bureau of Standards to determine that none of the Wilderness Organism were loose, and a few innocent bystanders were caught in the mess as some of the terrorists surrendered and others resisted to the death.
“It’s Suzy,” Cornish said softly as the woman lowered the newspaper a bit. There was no mistaking her now.
He and Edelman walked down to the platform, and were joined by several others as they made their way toward the far end. Calls were already going out to stop all westbound trains, and slowly soldiers moved in to start clearing away the people already down there.
Suzanne Martine was a survivor. She smelled the wrongness and felt the danger even before she saw anything to justify it. Still, she was calm, folding the newspaper and putting it on the bench carefully before casually looking up and around.
She made her hunters easily; they were the only people moving toward her. She went through the various options quickly as she continued to pretend that she hadn’t seen them, picked the one that seemed most likely to provide some sort of chance, and walked slowly over to the edge of the platform.
Pistols came out, and the men and women of the authority she hated so much started running toward her.
“Suzy! No! Don’t!” she heard a familiar voice scream, and for a split-second she hesitated, seeing Sam. Then, suddenly, as the first shots started, she jumped down onto the trackbed, managing somehow to keep her balance, and ran into the tunnel as shots ricocheted around and near her.
Sam Cornish got to the edge, turned to Edelman, and said, “Please! Let me go!”
The Chief Inspector thought for a second, then nodded. “Okay, son,” he said, “but flame squads will be at both ends. Talk her out or I won’t be able to stop them.” Again the split-second hesitation, then he reached into his jacket and brought out his .38. “Take this.”
Sam stared at the pistol for a second, as if he’d never considered the possibilities before. Then he took it, turned, and jumped down onto the track bed. “Watch that third rail!” somebody shouted, but he was gone into the darkness.
TWENTY-SEVEN
He was a tall man of about forty-five, in a brown suit and yellow shirt with brown-and-yellow striped tie, horn-rimmed glasses, and the look of a successful business executive.
He’d received a call from one of Edelman’s team on some breakthroughs, and since actions were still in progress they’d requested that he come over there to get the information. He needed and was entitled to it; Allen Honner was the President’s Chief of Staff.
A sleek, black car passed the east gate checkpoint at the White House and rolled up to the entrance. The two men inside looked like what they were: career FBI types. One got out, nodded to Honner, and opened the rear door for him. He got in without hesitation, and the agent, picking up a briefcase from the front seat, switched around and got in next to him.
The car started off, passed back out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and turned right toward the FBI Building.
Honner was confident and interested. “I’ll be having a late dinner with the President,” he told the agent beside him. “I’ll need all you’ve got. You know there’ll be a meeting on the fifteenth on the status and need for the emergency, and a speech on the conclusions reached there on the sixteenth.”
The other man nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I expect we’ll have most of this case wrapped or on the way to cleaning up by late this evening.”
Honner glanced around. “Hey! Wasn’t that the Hoover Building we just passed?” he asked, suddenly disturbed.
The other man shrugged it off and reached into his briefcase. “Don’t worry about it. We’re not going to the Bureau. Too many leaks there. We need absolute privacy for this.”
The Chief of Staff seemed a little upset, and he started to press the matter when the agent’s right hand came out with a small pistol with silencer attached and pointed it at him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Honner demanded. “Who are you?”
The agent’s left hand fumbled in the case and emerged with a gas-powered syringe. “I’m a fan of Mickey Mouse,” said the agent, and, pushing the injector against Honner’s buttocks, fired the drug through the Chief of Staff’s expensive brown pants.