He turned to Amanda and winked.
Amanda smiled but her heart was not in it.
They emerged from the elevators into a big shadowy garage packed with SSU vehicles. Captain Ramirez led Devin toward two black vans parked side by side. The driver of one of the vans produced papers for Ramirez to sign.
Glancing around, Devin imagined that he glimpsed General Sittman far across the room, but he wasn’t sure. The lines of authority here were tangled beyond his understanding—the PPP, the SSU, the national guard. All he knew was that Marion hated him and Andrei Denisov wanted to protect him, and that he wasn’t likely to receive the same royal treatment in Omaha that he’d enjoyed here.
Ramirez nodded as Devin stepped into the back of one of the vans. “Good luck, Mr. Milford,” he said, and the door shut.
The crowd cheered as the limos pulled away from the hotel, the sirens of their motorcycle escort howling. Peter, waving to the people on the street, glanced back and saw Marion sitting expressionless in her limo, clutching Caleb to her side. He had come to realize that she resented her number-two position, and he wondered how long she would settle for it.
His two children, dressed for the occasion, were sitting on jump seats. Jackie hadn’t looked so happy in weeks; she waved enthusiastically, even as the crowds began to thin out. Scott, seeming somehow grown up in a dark suit, gazed out at the city in wonder. Peter
guessed it had been a big jump for the boy from Milford to Omaha and now to the hugeness of Chicago. He knew he should spend more time with Scott but didn’t have any time to call his own anymore.
Amanda leaned close to Peter and whispered. “I saw Devin this morning, early.”
“How was he?”
“He seemed very at peace with himself.”
He studied her face, trying to glean understanding from her expression. “Is he willing to give up Billy?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t help him if he won’t.”
“I told him that,” she said, almost sullenly, and turned to the window.
Scott turned from the window and said, “Can’t they go any faster?”
“They’re going fast enough,” Peter said, and got out his speech for some final polishing.
The iron doors to the SSU’s underground garage slid slowly to one side, and the convoy moved out. First came two motorcycles, then a jeep with a mounted machine gun, a light attack vehicle, then the black transport van that held the prisoner. Behind the transport vehicle were more attack vehicles and motorcycles. The convoy picked up speed, and when pedestrians saw them coming, they slipped into doorways.
A few moments later, Andrei’s limousine slid out of the garage and drove off in the opposite direction. In the distance the sirens from Peter Bradford’s motorcade could be heard, but it was going in the opposite direction and soon the sound died out.
The convoy moved south on Lakeshore Drive at fifty miles an hour. There was little traffic and the few cars they saw pulled over to the side when they heard the sirens.
It was a routine run until they reached a comer where a delivery van was parked. The pale young man in the windbreaker was at the wheel of the delivery van and when the SSU convoy came round the corner he shot forward, heading straight for the black transport van. The SSU van swerved to avoid a collision, skidding onto the sidewalk and crashing into a utility pole. An antitank gun fired a rocket from a nearby building and the transport van exploded in flames. As the delivery van sped away, there was shooting from all directions. Soldiers leaped from the jeeps and were pinned down by machine-gun fire. The SSU officer in charge, at the risk of his hfe, ran to the burning transport van and tried to open its door, but he was beaten back by the flames.
Suddenly it stopped. The attackers abandoned the van and disappeared into an alley, leaving only the sound of the utterly shredded and burning vehicles. The SSU officer, cursing in Spanish, ran down the street looking for a telephone.
The limousines stopped on the infield and the guests of honor climbed out. Twenty bands blared the Heartland anthem, yet the roar of the crowd still drowned it out. Peter gazed up in awe; he was not prepared for this. A hundred thousand people packed Soldiers’ Field and thousands more ringed the stadium, just to have the music and the speeches piped out to them. Peter, stunned by the spectacle but remembering that the cameras were on him, waved with both arms.
There was an awkward pause as all the officials and their families got in line to proceed to the speakers’ platform. Peter waved to General Sittman, who with a group of national guard officers would form an escort platoon. Peter squeezed Amanda’s hand.
Amanda was too awed by the mass of people to speak.
Peter paid no attention as a dark-suited man, vaguely familiar to him, hurried up to Marion and drew her aside.
“It’s done,” Mike Laird whispered.
She looked at him sharply. “You’re sure?”
“The convoy was hit by what appeared to be a resister group.”
Marion sagged, took his arm. Laird tried to look solemn, as if this was urgent party business. In a moment she composed herself. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Laird nodded and walked away.
Peter walked over to Marion. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Just butterflies,” she said with a smile.
“It’s nice to know you’re at least a little like the rest of us,” he said.
She smiled. “Are we supposed to walk separately or can I take your arm—as though we were getting married?”
Peter smiled, offering his arm. “You can take my arm until we get outside, but under no circumstances are you to say, ‘I do.’ ”
The bands began “Hail to the Chief’ as they marched to the platform to begin the festivities. Upon seeing them, the crowd began to chant “Heartland… Heartland.”
Alethea and Ward were having coffee when the patrol car came roaring up the driveway. They had the
television on, with pictures of the Heartland rally, but Alethea had decided to keep the sound down until either Peter or Marion spoke. “We ought to show some respect,” she said. “I mean, they gave us a holiday.” Ward rose to his feet as the deputy, Cy Spraggins, leaped out of the patrol car and ran toward the house.
“Something’s up,” Ward muttered. “Cy hasn’t moved that fast in twenty years.”
The deputy burst in the door. He was a lanky, jug-eared man, and his face was red with excitement. “They’re coming,” he yelled. “The SSU. Out of the barracks, full strength!”
Ward held up his hand. “Hold on, Cy. Maybe it’s just maneuvers.”
“They were headed for town. Right behind me. It didn’t look like no maneuvers.”
Will Milford, his friend Dieter, his grandson Billy, and Clayton Kullen emerged from the barn saw the patrol car, and hurried to the house. “What the hell’s going on?” Will demanded.
“The SSU’s headed for town, Dad,” Ward said. “They may be coming here, looking for Billy.”
The old man nodded grimly. “Ward, you and Cy get on out of here. The less you know, the better. Stall ’em if you can.”
Ward scowled—he hated to run from a fight—but he knew his father’s plan made sense. He and Cy drove away, leaving Will, Alethea, Dieter, Clayton, and Billy. There was a moment’s awkward silence. “Maybe the exile camp?” Dieter suggested.
“No, they’ll look there,” Alethea said. “They’ll tear it apart. They always do the obvious, so we’ve got to be smarter than them.”
“The root cellar,” Will said.
“Too easy to find,” Alethea protested.
She looked at Billy and saw the uncertainty on his face. “Hey, handsome, it’s gonna be okay. We’ve just got to formulate the plan, as the deep thinkers say.”