In fact, it had barely damaged them.
Chapter 48
Milt Stevens downed another shot of liquor and tried to tell himself it would be okay. That things would work out.
But he couldn’t ignore the facts. He’d disobeyed a direct order from the President of the United States. He’d initiated an attack on the U.S. Army. People had died. There was no coming back from that and sooner or later, he’d pay for his crimes.
Still, those crimes paled in comparison to his darkest secret, the one that had plagued him ever since that cold December day in 1949. And unfortunately, this wasn’t a secret that could be destroyed. It was buried deep in the heart of Fort Knox, unmovable, just waiting to be discovered.
Milt downed another shot. Fort Knox was solid. Even that giant tank he’d seen on his monitors had failed to make so much as a dent in the exterior doors. Still, it was only a matter of time before the Army figured out a way to access the depository.
“It ain’t over, Milt,” he muttered to himself. “It ain’t done until you say it’s done.”
How had he gotten himself into this situation? He could barely recall the sequence of events that had led him to this predicament. Still, like so many things in life, it all came down to a single moment. A decision he’d made in conjunction with Roy Marvin.
He poured another drink and this time, sipped it slowly. Then he opened one of his desk drawers, sorted through some papers, and removed a black-and-white photo.
He stared at it for a long moment, lost in time, lost in that one moment that had ruined his life. The photo featured a group of battle-hardened men posing in front of a dump truck. Cigarettes dangled from their lips. Their rough hands casually clutched pistols and machine guns. They looked cool, aloof.
He’d faced two problems in the run-up to December 14, 1949. First, the need for secrecy. Project Capitalist Curtain was a clandestine operation of the highest caliber and required outside assistance. Second, the need for engineering expertise. The cargo was simply too heavy for ordinary dump trucks.
Milt focused on one particular face in the picture. The man sported a toothy grin, like he’d just cleaned up at a high-stakes poker game. Milt had met him late in the war. He and his crew were engineers and had been sent to Fort Knox for some kind of top-secret acoustic work. They’d quickly struck up a close friendship. So, when Milt needed someone to help solve his two problems in 1949, the man and his crew had seemed like the perfect candidates.
Milt exhaled. Hiring the man was his decision. And that choice — that moment — had ruined his life.
Briefly, he recalled that fateful day. At first, everything had seemed fine. The ten reinforced trucks were parked on the snow-covered grass in front of Shrieker Tower, with Milt watching from a distance. Just as the U.S. Army arrived, an explosion rang out. Thick smoke shot upward and outward. He’d strained his eyes, searching the area with binoculars.
But the trucks, along with the man and his crew, were gone.
Flabbergasted, he’d turned toward the arriving U.S. Army vehicles. Slowly, Roy had climbed out of a small truck. They’d stared dully at each other for a moment. Then they’d raced to the scene. For days, they and a crack team of soldiers had searched miles of terrain. But they never found so much as a single tire track.
The incident had haunted Milt for years. The trucks were parked in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by dense forest and a near-vertical mesa. Milt’s vehicle blocked the only exit. Simply put, there was nowhere for them to go. So, how’d they leave the clearing?
A loud knock caught Milt’s attention. Grumbling, he placed the photo on his desk. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but he didn’t see how he had much of a choice. He’d already ignored over a dozen calls from Brad Cruzer and he couldn’t afford to have the man start questioning his decisions.
He popped a couple of breath mints and hiked to the door, feeling every bit his ninety years. He unlocked the bolt and Cruzer pushed past him, entering the office. The man’s face was panicked and he spoke in a higher note than usual. “We need to end this.”
Milt closed the door. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” Cruzer’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a full-blown war.”
“One that we’ll win. Those imposters—”
“They aren’t imposters.”
Milt blinked. “What makes you say that?”
“Umm, let’s see. The guy who’s a dead ringer for President Walters? The Abrams parked on our doorstep? The fact that Fort Knox hasn’t mobilized any forces to help us?”
Milt strode back to his desk and held up the bottle of Steady Shot rum. “Care for a drink?”
Cruzer glared at him.
“Suit yourself.” Milt poured himself another shot. In the process, he studied Cruzer. The man’s right hand hovered mere inches above his sidearm. “You know, I’ve always wondered how this place would hold up under an actual assault. The exterior doors looked impressive, but those automated gun systems were way too easy to dismantle.”
“Listen—”
“You’d cry if I told you how much this facility has spent on defenses over the years. Guess we got gypped, huh?”
“Stop trying to change the subject.” Cruzer exhaled. “Look, I don’t know what this is about. But it’s over.”
Milt’s eyes narrowed.
“The exterior doors may have survived the tank. But my technicians inform me the soldiers — and they are soldiers — have accessed our wiring.”
“The locks will hold up.”
“Not when my men disable them.”
Milt glowered at him. “That’s insubordination.”
“Something tells me I’m not the only one guilty of that.” Cruzer’s hand closed around his gun. “I’m placing you under arrest, sir. Please put—”
Milt yanked his gun out of his gun belt. He squeezed the trigger as he lifted it into the air. Several loud blasts rang out.
Cruzer toppled over, bleeding profusely from his shoulder. Milt smiled. He was old, but he could still shoot a needle out of a haystack.
He shifted his gun to finish off Cruzer. In the process, he discovered his muscles were sluggish and barely responsive. His eyes glazed over. Glancing down, he saw a bullet hole in his stomach.
“Aw, crap,” he muttered. Dropping the gun, he sagged into his chair. His eyes caught a glimpse of the photo on his desk. What had happened to the man and his crew? And more importantly, what had happened to the trucks?
Clutching his stomach, he poured himself another shot of rum. Hand shaking, he lifted the mug to his lips. The alcohol, once a comfort to him, tasted like ash as it slid down his throat.
His door flew open. Officers raced into the space. He heard several faint voices, including one he despised with all his heart.
“Officer Stevens has gone rogue,” Cruzer said through clenched teeth. “I’m assuming temporary command. Now, get those doors open and pray to the gods they don’t kill us where we stand.”
Milt’s body slid out of his chair and he sagged to the floor. His gun was close by and he managed to pick it up. He was tempted to turn it on Cruzer. But it was too late for that.
So, he pointed the barrel into his mouth. Closed his eyes.
And squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 49
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “You might want to back up a few steps.”
K.J. shot me an irritated look. “Why’s that?”
“So that door doesn’t hit you.”
He turned just in time to see one of the exterior doors swinging toward him. Quickly, he vacated the area.
Soldiers grabbed hold of the president and pushed him behind one of the SUVs. Meanwhile, other soldiers found cover and took steady aim at the building.