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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 58
When the helicopter went down to land several hours later, the sun was beginning to set into a deep-red dusk. Up above, heavy cloud masses were stacking -- their edges lit red from the west.
Using a searchlight, the aircraft lowered itself unsteadily onto a narrow gravel path, between a pitch-dark field and a cluster of naked trees. The helicopter's lights went dark, the engines fell silent, the thunder of the rotorblades receded into a hissing. Three dark figures exited the vehicle, and ducked down into the ditch by the field's edge. They peeked up through the dry grass, scanning the darkening landscape: far off south, a river reflected the light from scattered houses. Closer lay just the light from a handful of houses; one or two fields, and the forested hills.
"Could that be Spokane, down to the south?" Abram asked.
"Impossible, we're much further east," Joyce said. "Probably just a small town. We can't stay here, we'll freeze to death."
"I won't drop my Uzi -- we're not safe yet," Parry said.
Abram whispered: "Okay. Hide the weapons in your clothes, and we'll get to the nearest house. We'll say that we were taking flying lessons, when we were surprised by the blast. First of all, we ought to get more fuel to the chopper. Then maybe we can get to Canada. Otherwise, a car is the top priority.
"But we don't hurt or threaten anybody, 'cause that would only make our case look worse. Okay?"
Parry mumbled his reluctant consent. They hid the Uzis inside their coveralls and left the ditch, condensed air steaming from their faces. When they had walked about fifty meters south along the gravel path, they came to a wider, dark asphalt road. Two car headlights suddenly beamed from behind a grove, close to the group.
"Just act like you need help," Abram told them. "Let me do the talking."
He rushed up onto the middle of the road and waved at the car to stop. A powerful pickup truck with an empty platform roared past Abram, braked, then backed. He strode over to the edge of the road, still waving with one hand; the other he kept close to the zipper of his collar. The truck's left side-window was wound open; a skinny old man in a hunter's cap poked out his head, giving Abram's features a sour look.
The driver opened his mouth -- full of all too white falseteeth -- and barked: "Whatever happened to you, son?!"
Abram gave him an embarrassed, half-desperate smile: "Me and a friend just made an emergency landing with a helicopter. We were taking flying lessons far, far away from here. There was a terrible explosion, and we were forced to fly over here... we must call for help, but my phone is broken..."
The driver loudly interrupted Abram's fast speech: "I drove here when I heard your helicopter going down. Jump up on the platform, and I'll take you to the sheriff!"
Abram hesitated an instant, then waved at the others who came up from the roadside and climbed onto the platform. They clung close together behind the driver's cab; the truck quickly took off on the dark road.
Abram leaned close to Parry and said in his ear: "He's driving us to the sheriff and I couldn't object, it would only have made him suspicious. Just stay calm and let me explain things."
Joyce, Abram, and Parry all began to shiver, and huddled closer together in the cold draft.
"You're beginning to lose control again, Doc," Parry said angrily. "What if they've sent out a bulletin about us? We were on the radio this morning," he said between the chattering of his teeth.
"The WRBC doesn't reach this far," Joyce stuttered. "And a nuclear explosion should knock out parts of the phone system -- just like your phone ceased to work, Abram."
Abram pulled up his collar a little higher, restlessly peering at the landscape sweeping past them. It was almost night now, and the land was black.
"Okay," he said tensely, "we don't know what to expect. I'm just begging you, Parry: stay calm until we know for sure what's happened today. In the worst case, we'll only be forced to tell the truth, n'est-ce pas?"
Nobody laughed, and they pressed closer together. After a few minutes' travel, they came to a more densely populated area with scattered houses. The truck passed a sign saying ROSANDA COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE 200 FEET. A few houses later, they turned in on a wide driveway lit by floodlights. The driveway lay in front of a two-story brick house with the sign ROSANDA SHERIFF'S OFFICE -- MUNICIPAL HALL.
The driver stopped the truck, stepped out and urged the three passengers to follow him inside. With Abram walking first after the man, they went through the bright glass-door entrance into the shiny white reception. The skinny old man, wearing a padded leather coat and boots, took off his hunting-cap and waved it, smiling, at the young woman behind the reception counter.
"Good evening, Trish," he shouted in his loud old man's voice, "is the sheriff in?"
"Hi Pete!" she shouted in a friendly tone, the way one does to a person with hearing problems.
She leaned across the counter, saw the three figures behind him, and quickly picked up the phone: "Pete just came in, with three people who seem to have arrived from a war. Yes. Yes. No. Okay."
She hung up and smiled at them.
"The sheriff will soon come to help you. Wouldn't you like to sit down while you wait?"
She gestured at the couch on the other side of the reception. The three, and the man called Pete, went quietly over and sat down.
Parry called urgently to the receptionist: "Miss..." She sat up, worried. He asked gravely: "Is there a TV? We've got to see the news."
The girl smiled apologetically, and reached up at the large monitor hanging in the ceiling next to her. She turned it in their direction, switched it on and asked: "What channel?"
"CNN," Parry replied quickly.
She pressed the channel number, and a newscaster appeared on the screen: "...is on its way to the site and will soon bring you pictures of the disaster."
Everyone in the reception stared at the screen: Parry, Abram, Joyce, the receptionist and Pete. Behind the newscaster was the image of a mushroom cloud and the headline NUCLEAR DISASTER IN THE U.S.?
"Today's big news is the mysterious nuclear explosion that occurred in Westmoreham County, southeast Washington State. All phone and radio communications with the small town are cut off, and contradictory testimonies arrived just before and after the accident. Many escaped witnesses have quoted a warning that was transmitted from the local radio station, minutes before the blast, and an obscure message which suggested a terrorist act.
"Other witnesses have claimed that a B-52 bomber plane was flying over the area just before the explosion. The Pentagon has so far refused to give any comments on the situation."
The newscaster stopped, appeared to read something from the teleprompter, then cleared his throat and continued: "We've just received news that our flying reporter from Seattle has reached the outer parts of the disaster area. Over to Barbara Wahn, Westmoreham."
The broadcast cut to a plain in deep-red dusk, shot from at least 300 feet up with a moving videocamera. Deep below, glowing smoke columns rose from a gigantic, elliptic firezone in the background.
Over the rotorblade noise, an emotional female voice began to speak: "This is Barbara Wahn, live from Westmoreham County. The burning area you see over there... somewhere in the middle, the fire is several miles wide... is all that remains of a small town with about four thousand inhabitants. I... I can't describe it in words. The National Guard has troops ready to enter in radiation suits, but firestorms are still raging and making it too dangerous to send in rescue patrols.
"Right now, fire-brigades from the entire state are being mobilized to try and limit the spreading of the fires. Rain is in the air, and the public in neighboring regions should not go outside with the risk of radioactive fallout and..."
The female voice cracked into an uncontrolled sobbing, a hand waved in front of the camera.
The sobbing voice shouted: "Cut! Cut!"
The newscaster came into view again, looking a bit shaken. He went on, slower than before.
"We've just received an unconfirmed statement from a Pentagon source: this morning, a highly placed Air Force officer ordered a B-52 bomber to fly over Westmoreham on what was assumed to be a training mission with non-armed bombs. An incorrect order was given, and an armed atomic bomb was dropped by mistake. The officer responsible for the faulty order, a certain General Joshua Quaid..."
"No! Jerks!" Parry said out loud.
"...assistant chief of the Strategic Air Command, did today commit suicide according to the same Pentagon source.
"The White House has so far declined to comment upon the events. A spokesman for the White House Public Relations Department promised that the President will hold a press conference as soon as he, quote, 'has got a clear picture of the actual scope of the event.'"
A phone rang and the receptionist answered, more calls blinking on her relay board, lining up on her monitor. Pete folded his hands, mumbling a soundless prayer as his eyes remained fixed on the screen. Joyce sat weeping silently.
Abram whispered to Parry: "I don't get it. Did Wade really kill himself after giving that order? That would rob the others of their most important tool of power."
"We don't know if it was suicide," Parry whispered. "Perhaps they finally tried to finish each other off, because of that lie you told Neville Anderson."
"That was just a cheap trick," answered Abram. "Should I have told him the truth, that such a well-guarded secret was revealed by a mental patient?"
Parry frowned, raising his voice a little: "No, they wouldn't buy that. But I think you got them to seriously start mistrusting each other -- it was probably just a matter of time anyway, after decades of secrecy. I think Wade committed suicide to prevent the others from doing the 'coup' you lied about; to break their power to use the Bomb."
"But the bombing? He couldn't have decided that on his own."
"No," Parry consented, "we don't know exactly who agreed on the bombing, but we could assume that at least Wade and Neville Anderson did. The decision to attack American territory must have disrupted their unity, and their strategy broke down..."
Then Parry's face lit up: "We've won, Doc! If the other four would try to assassinate the President now, the 'Rexicide' strategy wouldn't work. All the attention on Wade must have awakened the President, and any attempt on his life now would only increase their exposure. If only we'd got through the list of names which should've been read on WRBC -- then the whole affair'll be over soon."
They looked up at the TV screen again: some word from a newscaster had caught their ears.
"...a recording of the message that was read on the local radio channel, just before the explosion."
Abram and Parry held their breath; a noisy tape recording with odd snapping disturbances -- radiation damage? -- was played on the news program.
"...if you want to complain about the current state of the nation, please ask for these partly responsible persons.
"Neville Anderson, head of the National Security Council; Colmer Raymond, advisor to the Secretary of State; Pete Stanton, Deputy CIA chief; Harold Ulmgard, Pentagon Intelligence officer; and Joshua WaDZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ --"
Parry jerked to his feet, waving his fists: "Yes! Got'em! We made it, Doc!"
He stopped dead, his head turning toward an inner door. The sheriff and two deputies had just arrived into the reception. They, Abram, Joyce, the receptionist, and Pete stared at him.
"Concealed weapon!" one deputy screamed, pointing at the suspicious bulge in the belly of Parry's bloodied coveralls -- fully visible.
The loose Velcro straps of Parry's flak jacket had opened up when he had leaped up from the couch. Parry's face hardened -- he instantly pulled down the zipper of his coveralls, reaching for the Uzi or a grenade -- the receptionist screamed and ducked down -- and he was immediately gunned down by the sheriff and his assistants. They had drawn their revolvers in an instant.
He was hit in the chest and his right arm -- the impact threw him backward. Grimacing, he fell on his back. Abram made a move toward him, but stopped.
The sheriff shouted rapidly at Abram, aiming at his head: "Freeze! You two -- put your hands behind your heads!"
Desperately looking at Parry, who lay writhing on the floor, Abram obeyed the order.
"You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."
The deputies quickly searched Abram and Joyce, and took Abram's Uzi and Beretta. The sheriff took a knife, and cut loose Parry's bloodied gun and grenades from his strap. He handed them to the other deputy.
"Trish!" He threw a glance at the counter; the terrified receptionist's head peeked up. "Call Dr. Jameson and the hospital for an ambulance. Critical gunshot wounds."
She picked up the phone. The other deputy kneeled over Parry, unpacking some First Aid. He opened up the coveralls. Blood was streaming across Parry's chest; his breathing was forced and wheezing.
"Abram," Parry said in a faint voice.
Abram ignored the first deputy's gun and kneeled down next to Parry's head.
"Closer," Parry mumbled.
With Abram's ear almost touching his cheek, he muttered: "Giordano Bruno... a student... taped my lectures. He told me... final lecture... hidden inside staircase to his L.A. apartment. The power behind the power... I just scraped the surface... you see? You must continue my work."
Abram lifted his head, looking helplessly down on Parry's white face: Parry's eyes were half-shut, but under the eyelids his eyes were flickering about as wildly as before, with the old hunted expression.
His pupils stopped and focused on Abram's face -- and he showed his teeth in a final wolf grin.
"Y'think you broke me. But now I see you..."
The grin contracted a little; his eyes went still.
The deputy felt the man's throat for a pulse and said: "He's dead."
Pete held his cap to his chest and made the sign of the cross.
"Sorry about that," the sheriff said, "but he gave us no choice. As soon as Trish told you that Pete had brought the three of you here, we connected you to the A.P.B. on the three terrorist suspects from Westmoreham."
"I'm not a terrorist," Joyce objected sourly -- her tears had ceased. "It was those two who took me hostage, after we'd been attacked by CIA agents or --" she stopped abruptly, looking down on Parry's dead body.
"What'll happen to us now?" Abram said with a resigned face.
"That's not my decision," the sheriff stated. "The A.P.B. on you is a federal matter, so we're delivering you to the FBI."
He lowered his gun, looking questioningly at Parry's corpse; then at Abram's grimy, lined face.
"How about some explanations?" The sheriff, a homely-looking man in his thirties, scratched his temple and squinted as if thinking hard.
"I mean, what's all this nonsense about CIA agents? It was your helicopter we heard landing, wasn't it? Why were you carrying that arsenal, and what've you got to do with the A-bomb over Westmoreham? And who was he, by the way?"
He nodded in the direction of the corpse on the reception floor.
Abram looked into the ceiling, expressionless: "That was..." -- he appeared to be talking to someone else -- "a life wasted in the pursuit of the unattainable."
He turned to Joyce.
"There won't be any report," he told her.