He discovered the source of the sudden tempest too late to do anything about it. The wind was artificial, generated by four propeller engines mounted to the wings of the enormous flying boat. As Dodge trod water, greedily sucking the air and wincing at the pain that accompanied every movement, the roar of airplane engines grew to deafening proportions and then climaxed. He caught a glimpse of the plane a few seconds later, now several hundred yards further down the river, as it lifted off the surface and rose from behind the derelict barge.
His joy at having survived the plunge was dampened by the realization that he had failed; the raiders had escaped with their hostage, and nothing he had done had made a bit of difference. Dejected, he sidestroked toward the low hull of the barge and paddled until he found a hawser trailing over the side. The flat-bottomed craft was riding high in the water, evidently empty of cargo, and Dodge had to struggle to pull himself over the gunwale. Safe at last, he lay on the deck for a few minutes, staring helplessly up at the clear sky.
He was surprised to discover the exoskeleton still loosely attached to his body. His sodden shoes were still in the footpads and the stiff belt, though unbuckled, hugged his waist. The metal framework was so light and so perfectly articulated that it had not impeded his movements in the water. The technology that made it work would no doubt be of great interest to the nation’s scientists. Well, that’s something, he thought. Maybe the day isn’t a total loss.
He rolled over and got up in degrees; hands and knees first, then a final agonizing stretch to stand erect. His earlier assumptions about the barge were confirmed. It was completely empty. The decks, designed to haul heaps of grain or coal, were bare. The boat had no superstructure, nowhere for anyone to hide. He was the only soul aboard.
Then he noticed something that did look out of place: a pair of long wires that stretched the length of the deck. He followed them with his eyes, trying to figure out why they looked familiar in an environment that was so wholly foreign. There was a twist in the wires every few feet, as if the metal remembered how it had once been coiled around a spool. It wasn’t until he saw the bundle of dynamite in one corner that everything fell into place.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”
There were four bombs in all, each linked to a central nexus near one end of the boat. It was a wind-up alarm clock, rhythmically ticking away, mere seconds from the moment when a lot more than just an alarm would go off.
CHAPTER 3
THE ULTIMATUM
The White House Rose Garden looked like a war zone. Given the events that had recently transpired there, that might have seemed an appropriate description, but the Presidential Manor and the surrounding grounds showed surprisingly little damage from the exchange between Secret Servicemen and the unidentified invading force. There were scorch marks on the polished white exterior and a few bullet scars, but for the most part, the distinguished residence, which had been gutted by British troops during the War of 1812, and then survived the Whig Riot in 1841 and the Christmas Eve fire of 1929, had weathered this latest assault quite well. It was only after the combatants had left the field that most of the damage had occurred, all due to a human hurricane of destruction named Brian Hurley.
Hurley did not deal well with failure, and although he was under no special obligation to protect the Chief Executive, nor had he in any way been prepared to defend against enemies using an incomprehensible technology against which bullets were completely ineffectual, he was coping with this latest rare defeat with his customary grace: he was breaking everything in sight.
Delicate flowers, lawn furniture and bone china, all suffered the same fate. Hurley destroyed anything that he could pick up, and there was very little Hurley couldn’t pick up. Three Secret Servicemen had tried to restrain him, but had been tossed aside as easily as it they were made of balsa wood. The fact that they suffered nothing worse than mild sprains and one possible concussion, belied the berserker expression Hurricane wore; had he not been holding back at least a little bit, the men would have been pulverized.
Most of the party guests had been evacuated to an inner conference room where they were being forcibly sequestered, while a small group of White House staff and military personnel, drawn by perverse curiosity, had trickled into the Garden. General Frank Vaughn was the latest to arrive.
Like the others, he gazed in humble awe at the destructive colossus as an entire family of wooden lounge chairs was crushed like matchwood. Only then did the officer turn to the rest of the assembled onlookers.
He found the Secretary of the Treasury conversing with the White House Chief of Staff and the senior Secret Service agent on the scene. He joined them and waited for the agent to recapitulate the events of the day and lay out the subsequent actions taken. “Police spotters are following the airship as it moves down the river. All of the reporters that were here have been isolated and a total news blackout is in force. The Vice President has been contacted, but no one outside knows the full situation.”
Vaughn was unimpressed. “I’ll wager very few inside know what’s really going on. What have you told the police?”
The Chief of Staff cleared his throat. “We’re reporting a runaway experimental weather balloon.”
“And the men flying…” He glanced down at the teletype report and read it again. “Is that right? Flying men?”
“Ground crew members who were holding the mooring ropes and inadvertently carried aloft.”
Vaughn waved the report at him. “And how does that explain them shooting lightning bolts from their hands?”
The man spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, but offered no comment.
“Do we know who is behind this?”
The Treasurer spoke for the first time. “It can only be a foreign government; Germany, if I had to hazard a guess. They have always been at the forefront of scientific and military development, and this sort of belligerence is just their style.”
Vaughn was wary. The Cabinet Secretary was known to be an advocate of aggressive foreign policy and was especially vocal about the threat posed by Hitler’s Nazi regime in Europe, but there were many others in Washington who felt that Hitler was a potential ally in the struggle against communism. The General knew he had to tread carefully in this particular political minefield. “If you’re right, this can only mean war.”
As they spoke, a group of Marines in full battle rattle and wielding riot batons was preparing to move in on Hurley and subdue him. Vaughn eavesdropped as they finalized their plan of attack. When he had heard enough, he excused himself from the war council and gently intervened. “Forgive me, sergeant, but I think you may want to reconsider. That’s Hurricane Hurley.”
The Marine bit back a caustic reply when he spied Vaughn’s stars and snapped to attention. “Sir, we’re going to do our best not to hurt him.”
“Son, I’m not worried about him.” Vaughn smiled forbearingly. “Look, he’s just blowing off a little steam. He’ll calm down in a few minutes and then we can get down to figuring out who the real enemy is.”
The Marine sergeant waited until the General turned away to roll his eyes, but the point became moot when Hurley’s rampage abruptly ceased. To the amazement of all onlookers, he froze in place for a few moments, then stooped down to pick up a silver serving platter. He stared at it for a moment, then turned it over and looked at the other side.