And she, unfortunately, was the person on the spot.
According to the locals, the people in the library had been calling out that they’d wanted to negotiate since at least the middle of the night. That, at least, was hopeful. So she had a sheriff’s department bullhorn delivered to her, and she shouted out from behind one of the neighboring buildings that someone from the Army was coming out to talk to them, and then she straightened her helmet and her shoulders and took a long breath and walked around the corner, into the sunlight, and into the sights of anyone in the library who cared to shoot her dead.
She marched down the sidewalk until she was opposite the front door of the library, made a precise military 90-degree turn, and crossed the street and onto the uneven concrete walk that led between live oak to the library door. The library loomed before her, clear in the right eye, a blur in the left. Jessica stopped halfway to the door, by the blackened remains of a burnt-out police car, and dropped into the at-ease position, feet balanced and apart, hands clasped behind her back. She cleared her throat. Her hammering pulse rang inside her helmet like a bell.
If the locals want a massacre, she thought, this is where I’m shot dead. And if the people in the library want to make another point, they can shoot me, too.
“Is there a Nick Ruford in the building?” she called.
She hoped that tension hadn’t tautened her vocal cords to the point where she sounded like one of the Chipmunks.
There was a moment’s pause, and then a voice answered, “I’m Nick Ruford.”
“I’m Major General J. C. Frazetta, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. I am taking command in this parish as of now. I spoke to your wife and daughter a couple hours ago, and they want you to know that they’re safe and well.”
There was another pause. “Where are they?” asked Nick.
“They are at my headquarters in Vicksburg. They came down the Mississippi on a little boat, and encountered some of my units conducting a search-and-rescue mission.”
When Nick next spoke there was a tremor in his voice, as if relief had almost sent him into a swoon.
“And the other families?” he asked. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Jessica said. “I have no reason to believe they are anything other than safe.” There was a buzz of voices from inside the library. Jessica waited a moment, then spoke again.
“Mr. Ruford, may I come inside? It will make things easier, I think.” There was more discussion. Jessica distinctly heard someone say, “We don’t let Whitey in our fort!” But in the end the front door swung open, and Nick Ruford’s voice came from the interior.
“Please come in, General.”
“I’ll take off my sidearm first,” Jessica said. She took off her pistol belt, put it on the trunk of the burnt-out car, then walked into the library.
The tang of gunsmoke still hung in the still air. There were about fifteen men in the library, and two women, all armed. All were bigger than Jessica. Not all of them looked friendly.
“I’m Nick Ruford,” one of the men said. He was in his mid-thirties, Jessica judged, with a week’s growth of beard and a pistol on his hip. He stood somewhat behind the open door, and he limped to the door and pushed it shut.
Jessica’s heart gave a leap. She had been hoping not to be shut in with these people. Instead she looked at them. Tried to make eye contact with each in turn. Allowed herself a slight smile.
“Mr. Ruford’s family has told me what’s been taking place here. That’s why I am placing this area under military control and calling in troops. The first units have already landed. The local sheriff, who may have been responsible, was shot dead last night. His department has been taken off duty. I believe the crisis will shortly be over, and you will be reunited with your families.”
She looked at them, saw wild hope mingled with scornful disbelief.
“I want national media here,” Nick Ruford said. “I want the networks. I want CNN.” Well that is smart, Jessica thought. “I can arrange that,” she said. “I have about fifty of those reporters camping out at my headquarters with nothing to do but bother my people, so I imagine we can send them here to bother you.”
“I suppose you want us to surrender!” one man said. “I suppose you want us to put down our guns and walk straight into jail!”
Jessica thought about this for a moment. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t. I don’t have enough people here to guarantee your safety. I think you’re safest right as you are.” She nodded at the belligerent man.
“Eventually, when we can guarantee your safety and reunite you with your families, I hope you will put down your weapons. If what I have heard from Mr. Ruford’s family is anything like the truth, I don’t believe any of you will be charged. I will take you all out of Spottswood Parish on military aircraft, and I will take you to my headquarters. You will have your media coverage. And I will protect you—you have my word on it.”
She still saw loathing on the man’s face. Most of the others looked thoughtful. She looked at them all again, and as she did so a wild inspiration struck.
“And in fact,” she said, “until I can move you to my head-quarters, I propose to move my headquarters here. With your permission,” she nodded toward Nick, “I hereby declare this building the headquarters of the Mississippi Valley Division, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.”
“No, sir,” Jessica said, “I am not a hostage. These kind people let me move my headquarters into their building. I’m carrying on business as usual.”
Indeed she was. She’d persuaded the Warriors to allow her a couple of unarmed communications techs, and she’d moved communications gear into the Carnegie Library, set up a satellite dish on the lawn, and had been in touch with her command for the last six hours, deploying her people in response to the last major quake.
“This is a very singular thing,” said the President into Jessica’s ear. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”
“No, sir,” Jessica said. “I’m not certain at all. I’m way the hell off the map, is where I am, and I know it.” The President seemed amused. “Well, Jessica,” he said. “If you survive, you’ll be a hero. I suggest that you try to live.”
“I will do my very best to follow your advice, sir.”
“I should mention that the Justice Department is expressing a considerable interest in what has occurred there in—is it Spottywood Parish?”
“Spottswood, sir.”
“Yes. The Justice Department would like to handle all criminal investigations.”
“I don’t see that would be necessary,” Jessica said. “I’m sure the Defense Department has all the necessary expertise.”
“The Attorney General tells me that the FBI has the finest forensic investigators in the world.”
“I believe that the Defense Department can match them, sir. After all, we have people that are regularly called to identify corpses found on old battlefields.”
The President paused a moment. “Jessica,” he said, “I suggest you concede this one with grace. After all, they won’t be investigating you this time. You haven’t shot anybody yet.” Jessica smiled. Her argument had been pour Vhonneur du pavillion, as it were, strictly for the record. She was perfectly happy to hand the investigation over to Justice. What if we bungled it? she thought.