A smile formed on the craggy Texan’s lips; then faded.
“I don’t take kindly to threats.”
Rachel shrugged.
“Have it your own way. When you are the President you will want to talk to us.”
The woman turned to go.
“That’s it?” Johnson demanded angrily, losing his temper.
“Yes. What did you expect, Mr Vice President?” Rachel said deadpan. “A quick hand job before I leave?”
Chapter 43
Galen Cheney’s people had recovered Dwight Christie’s stolen Chrysler from its hiding place off the Atsion Road and driven it deep into the woods near the encampment. The camp, which had been populated mainly by women and children when the former G-man arrived, had filled with men, at least a dozen of them, the majority dressed in military-style fatigues and carrying a variety of guns. Several of Galen Cheney’s ‘disciples’ hefted M-16 assault rifles, others pump action shotguns, or long hunting rifles, every man carried a handgun on his hip. With the return of the men folk the clearing in the woods had assumed the feel and the mood of an outlaw hideaway.
As there often was in Galen Cheney’s proximity there was a threat of violence in the air; life around him was always lived on the edge of retribution. Now that the returnees — Christie had no idea where they had been — knew who he was, and more importantly, what he had once been, the majority were viewing him as if they wanted to slit his throat and be done with it.
Cheney had called a meeting so Christie could tell his story to everybody,
Dwight Christie had understood that he was on trial for his life; and that if things went badly there would be nothing clean, quick or painless about the manner of his death.
‘The resistance,’ he explained, ‘has planted a large number of naval demolition charges underneath City Hall.’
The first time around Galen Cheney, his son Isaac, and his principle lieutenant, the military looking guy called ‘Dan’ had listened with varying degrees of impassivity, nodding now and then as he had explained, in painstaking detail everything he knew about the Resistance’s scheme to decapitate the Kennedy Administration, Congress and, almost incidentally, eradicate the leadership of the Afro-American Civil Rights movement in a single audacious ‘operation’.
They had been impressed enough to let him talk to the others.
‘This was all made possible because when Congress moved to Philadelphia City Hall was a building site for the first month as new offices were set up and the basements were cleared out. Everything was done in such a hurry that nobody, and I mean nobody, was really in charge. The Secret Service, the FBI, the Philadelphia PD, people from Justice, the Office of the Interior and the survivors from the Pentagon all wanted a piece of the action. It was relatively easy for us to get our people into City Hall. Everything’s wired to blow at a flick of a switch. Our demotion guys reckon the whole shebang will fall down like a house of cards.’
Galen Cheney had chewed on this for a very long time.
The silence grew dangerous.
‘City Hall comes crashing down. Then what?’ He had asked lowly.
The crowd standing, sitting, moving about around Christie had begun muttering. He had tried to ignore the hostility, hate in the eyes studying him as he saw in the canvas camp chair in their midst.
‘Then we seize the TV and radio stations in Philadelphia and broadcast the call to arms to rise up against the Federal Government. We all get to join in the great fight for freedom with our brothers and sisters in the Midwest.’
Cheney nodded, looked to Dan, who seemed to be his deputy.
The other man had shrugged imperceptibly, his scrutiny never moving from Christie’s face.
‘How come we don’t know squat about any of this, brother?’
Christie had ignored him, concentrating on Cheney.
‘It was too risky to make contact with you guys after Atlanta. Besides, I was only brought in on this thing a month ago. Until then we couldn’t be sure if the March on Philadelphia was going to happen. We have to decapitate the Government this time. We have to liquidate the whole leadership. What went wrong in DC last year was that the coup hit too many places at the same time without killing the all people that mattered. If the Pentagon had fallen, or if the White House had been destroyed early on things might have been different. But here in Philadelphia we don’t have to capture or destroy half-a-dozen or twenty targets we just have to hit one! Hard! Hit it on a date and at a time we know that all the people we have to kill all be in one place!’
Galen Cheney had sucked his teeth and fiddled unconsciously with his bolo tie, turning the Navajo medallion in his fingers.
‘We already have plans for fourth of July,’ he had declared and nodded to Dan and Isaac to take Christie away.
That was two days ago.
Since then Christie had been kept under constant guard in a tent set back into the woods. He had had to dig his own latrine away from the camp, and had his food brought to him. There were always two guards, always armed with M-1 carbines or M-16 assault rifles. Cheney had warned him if he attempted to escape he would be shot.
‘Like a dog.’
Somebody was shaking Christie’s shoulder.
It was dark but a lantern was swinging close to his head.
“What the… ”
The barrel of a gun jabbed his ribs.
“Nobody can get near City Hall,” Galen Cheney grunted accusingly.
Christie struggled to sit up, pressing his right hand to his ribs.
“That’s because it’s the most secure building in the country right now!” He retorted irritably.
“Convenient, that,” the other man growled. “Nobody being able to check your story. Maybe I don’t believe you.”
“Yeah, well what you believe and what’s real ain’t always the same thing, Galen!” Dwight Christie had had just about enough; of the FBI, of ‘the cause’, of living, basically, and it made him fearless. “Why the fuck aren’t you out West fighting the good fight with the rest of the fucking brethren?”
In the quietness the lantern sizzled in the gloom.
“I have God’s work to do here in the East first.” He sighed. “The end of times will come soon enough, brother.”
“God said that to you, did he?”
Galen Cheney nodded somberly, pitying the unbeliever.
“My people have no interest in who governs this forsaken country,” he went on. “Go back to your people and tell them that we will do God’s work in Philadelphia as He sees fit.”
“You won’t get anywhere near the President.”
“God will be with us as he was with the Israelites when he parted the Red Sea for them to escape from captivity in Egypt.”
The man is stark raving mad!
“I can’t tell my people that!”
“Then you don’t need to tell them anything.”
The moment had come; the last throw of the dice.
“If I don’t renew contact by noon tomorrow, they’ll come for you in forest, Galen.”
The other man was stone-faced.
“You’ve got a lot of fighting men here but a lot of women and children, too. I’m sure you’re organized, that you’ve got pickets out in the woods. Booby traps, too. But they’ll just come in here and wipe you out anyway because otherwise you might end up in the wrong place at the wrong time on Saturday. They won’t let that happen.” He tried to sound reasonable. However, it was the middle of the night and he had been expecting a bullet in the back of the neck for two days now. “Give me your word you and your people will stay out of downtown Philly on Saturday or shoot me. It doesn’t make a heap of difference to me. What’s it to be?”