Resistance: The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Talking the Talk

Denver, Colorado

Saturday, December 15, 1951

It was snowing beyond the large picture window that looked out over the Denver Federal Center. The flakes were big and wet, as if determined to reach the ground in record time, where they quickly turned to slush.

In spite of what he had repeatedly said to the press, President Grace didn’t like Denver, Colorado. But given the intermittent spire attacks—like the one that narrowly missed him while visiting the Lincoln Memorial—it was the best place to be. The brush with death had been a very unsettling experience. It not only cast doubt upon his ability to protect the citizens of the United States, but it forced the government to flee inland.

And the incident left Grace with a knot of fear in his belly. Not just a fear of failure, but fear for his life, which had been threatened on that dark day.

Such were his thoughts as he turned away from the wintry scene that lay beyond the glass, crossed his recently completed office, and entered the hall beyond. The crown molding was up by that time, but as he made his way down the corridor painters were still at work, and it was necessary to thread his way between their ladders.

Rather than try to imitate the Cabinet Room in the genuine White House, the decision had been made to create something entirely different under the cupola, which was positioned at the very center of the new residence. In keeping with the dome above, the table around which the President’s advisers were about to gather was circular, symbolizing the collegial spirit that Grace liked to project as being typical of his administration.

The table rested on a round carpet that was large enough for all twelve chairs to rest on. Provisions had been made for aides to sit higher up, behind a low wall, where they could observe what went on below and participate if called upon to do so. That section was empty, however, partly because it was a Saturday, and partly because the gently curving seats were still being constructed.

In keeping with Grace’s well-known penchant for punctuality, all of his subordinates were present when he entered the room. They stood as he strode to where his chair awaited, located at the eastern point of the compass-shaped inlay that was set into the mahogany tabletop. Vice President Harvey McCullen’s chair marked the western point of the compass, Secretary of State Harold Moody stood with his back to the north, and newly named Secretary of War General Gregory Issen was stationed to the south.

The others, including Presidential Counsel Hanson, Attorney General Clowers, Secretary of Agriculture Seymore, Secretary of Transportation Keyes, Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth, Secretary of Commerce Lasky, and Chief of Staff Dentweiler, occupied the quadrants in between, with room to spare.

The room still reeked of fresh paint as Grace motioned for his advisers to sit down. The reports that followed were anything but encouraging: As Seymore spoke of persistent food shortages, Keyes bemoaned a lack of trains necessary to move critical supplies around, and Lasky reported that the steadily growing underground economy was a serious problem. The greenback was steadily falling out of favor as more and more citizens were choosing to use silver coins, gold pieces, and old-fashioned barter to settle their debts. All of which made for a very gloomy meeting until it was Dentweiler’s turn to speak.

“So, Bill,” Grace said. “What have you got for us? Something positive I hope.”

It was Dentweiler’s moment, and he planned to take full advantage of it, as all eyes rested on him. “Yes, Mr. President, I do have something positive to report. Simply put, Project Omega is poised for success. The first objective, which was to recapture Daedalus, has been accomplished.”

That news was sufficient to stimulate applause, which made Dentweiler feel very good, and brought a broad smile to Grace’s face.

“Well done! That’s the sort of thing we need more of. Where is he?”

“Sheridan, Wyoming, sir,” Dentweiler replied. “Our experts are trying to establish workable communication protocols with Daedalus. Once that effort is complete, we’ll be able to open negotiations anytime we want to.”

“So, Daedalus is cooperative?” Farnsworth wanted to know.

Dentweiler smiled tightly.

“No,” he answered honestly, “I wouldn’t go that far… But, thanks to the right sort of encouragement, Daedalus continues to grow more cooperative with each passing day. Let’s put it that way.”

A number of people chuckled, but the Vice President wasn’t one of them.

“I think we’re playing with fire,” McCullen observed darkly. “The last thing the people of the United States want us to do is negotiate with the Chimera. But, even if they did support the idea, we would be foolish to trust someone like Daedalus. He may have been human once—but he isn’t any longer.”

“Project Omega is an option, Harvey, and nothing more,” Grace interjected smoothly. “And I think all of us want to have as many options as we can come up with. But enough of that… Let’s move on to the Victory Tour. How’s that coming?”

Some of the cabinet members, Secretary of War Issen among them, thought it was premature to call the upcoming swing through the heartland a “victory tour,” given conditions on the ground, but Grace had persisted. After the Lincoln Memorial incident, the people needed reassurance.

“Preparations are well underway,” Dentweiler replied confidently. “You’re scheduled to give the first speech the day after tomorrow, here in Denver. After that it’s on to Omaha, St. Louis, Memphis, New Orleans, Houston, Phoenix, and the West Coast. We’ll be busing people in from the Protection Camps to enhance the crowds. I think you can count on some extremely positive coverage in all the major papers.”

“It will boost morale,” Lasky predicted enthusiastically. “I like it.”

“So do I,” Grace agreed, “although I can’t say I’m looking forward to all those chicken dinners!” That produced a chorus of chuckles.

The meeting ground on, and the snow continued to fall.

It had been a long day, and Cassie Aklin was tired by the time she finally arrived home, and was able to close and lock the door. Her roommate had already departed for work by then, which meant Cassie had the apartment to herself, as she shed her work clothes in favor of a robe and slippers.

Then, with some Nat King Cole playing on the radio, Cassie made a simple dinner that consisted of scrambled eggs with small chunks of fried Spam mixed in, and a piece of toast. Though plain by prewar standards, the meal was special because eggs were hard to come by. The local grocer had been kind enough to hold two of them for her.

Later, after the dishes had been washed, dried, and put away, Cassie went into the living room, where a book titled The Catcher in the Rye sat waiting on the side table next to her favorite chair. She had just sat down, and was in the process of making herself comfortable, when she heard a knock on the door.

It was probably Elsie, the elderly woman who lived down the hall, but with so many desperate people flooding into town she took the moment necessary to peer through the peephole before turning the bolt. What she saw made her heart jump.

“Nathan?” Cassie demanded, as she threw the door open. “Is it really you?”

That question was answered in no uncertain terms as Hale stepped in to close the door with a backward kick and wrapped Cassie in his arms. Her lips were there waiting, and half a minute passed as they kissed and whispered private things to each other.

Then, when they broke contact, Cassie looked up into Hale’s face and smiled.

“I missed you… Could you tell?”

Hale smiled.

“No, let’s try that again.”

So they kissed again, and it wasn’t long before a trail of discarded clothing led to the bedroom, where Hale laid Cassie on her bed.

“Let’s take it slowly,” she suggested softly. “Let’s make it last until dawn.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hale responded with mock seriousness, as he lay down next to her. “Your wish is my command.”

Two hours later the lovers took a shower together. And even though they had fallen well short of Cassie’s goal, neither saw any reason to complain as they helped dry each other off. Then, clad in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts, Hale followed Cassie into the kitchen, where she made a grilled cheese sandwich for him.

“So,” she said as Hale took his first bite, and she sipped some tea. “Are you on leave? I know you aren’t here for a checkup… I would have heard about that.”

“President Grace is going to give a speech in front of the state capitol,” Hale explained. “And given how unstable the situation is, SRPA agreed to provide extra security. So, being a true patriot, I volunteered to take part.”

The last was delivered with a mischievous grin and Cassie laughed.

“Liar! You wanted to mooch one of my world-famous grilled cheese sandwiches!”

“Yeah,” he agreed lightly. “You have me dead to rights. It’s all about your grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Cassie smiled indulgently. “You are a very bad boy.”

Hale’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Does that mean I’m going to be punished?”

“Yes,” Cassie answered gravely. “It’s too late to send you to bed without your dinner… But I can still send you to bed early.”

“Damn,” Hale said regretfully as he took a sip of milk. “That sounds very strict. But, if I must, I must.”

The sky was three shades of gray, the occasional snowflake twirled down from above, and a man in a red Santa Claus suit held the door open for Susan Farley and Anthony Puzo as they left Union Station. The Santa’s bell made a cheerful clanging sound and was an audible reminder of Christmases past. So Susan put both of her suitcases down long enough to adjust the blue scarf she was wearing on her head, remove a one-dollar bill from her purse, and push it down into the pot that hung suspended under a metal tripod.

That was a lot of money for anybody, given the war, and Susan felt momentarily proud of herself. Then she remembered that she wasn’t going to need any money, impulsively shoved a ten-spot into the cauldron, and bent to pick her suitcases up off the cigarette-butt-littered sidewalk. “Bless you!” the man said fervently. “Merry Christmas!”

Susan doubted such a thing was possible, but smiled anyway as she made her way out to the curb. Puzo had corralled a cab by then, and consistent with his normal manner, made no attempt to help Susan with her suitcases. Once the luggage was stowed in the trunk, and the passengers were sitting in the back seat, the driver pulled out into light traffic.

“We’re staying at the Ridley Hotel,” Puzo informed him. “It’s on the corner of 14th and Lincoln.”

The cabbie nodded obediently as he guided the car up 17th toward the home of the Colorado legislature.

It was a relatively short drive, but there was enough time for Susan to catch a glimpse of busy sidewalks filled with men in uniform, shabby-looking civilians, and brightly decorated shop windows. But no amount of red, gold, and green could win the war, and the sight of it left Susan feeling sad.

The Ridley was a popular hotel that was set up to meet the needs of state legislators and the lobbyists who besieged them. It was also a favorite with traveling businessmen who were fond of the hotel’s masculine decor, high-ceilinged rooms, and spacious Buffalo Bar.

As the cab pulled in under the Ridley’s elaborate portico, two bellhops, both attired in pillbox hats, burgundy jackets, and gray slacks, hurried out to remove the suitcases and haul them inside. A large fireplace dominated one end of the enormous lobby. It was surrounded by groupings of furniture—the emphasis being on leather chairs, brass lamps, and large side tables. They were littered with cast-off newspapers, empty coffee cups, and half-filled ashtrays.

The reception desk was located at the far end of the room. It was made of highly polished dark wood. Etched-glass panels separated each of the three well-groomed receptionists and Puzo chose to approach the one in the middle.

“Good morning,” he said breezily. “You should have two reservations… One for my daughter, Mary—and the other for me. My name is Perkins. Horace Perkins.”

The receptionist was a middle-aged man dressed in a black three-piece suit. He had the manner of an undertaker as he ran a narrow finger down the ledger in front of him.

“Welcome to the Ridley, Mr. Perkins… Ah, yes, here we are. Two interconnecting rooms on the third floor. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is,” Puzo confirmed. “I can’t stand people walking around over my head. Your elevators are in good working order, I trust?”

“They are,” the clerk answered gravely, as if anything else would be unthinkable. “If you and your daughter would be so kind as to sign these registration cards, I’ll have one of the bellmen escort you to your rooms.”

Then, as if to signal the end of the conversation, the receptionist brought his hand down on a button which rang a small bell. Susan was still in the process of signing her fake name when a burgundy-clad bellman arrived to load their luggage onto a cart.

Ten minutes later the bellman was gone and Susan was in her nicely appointed room, looking out through one of two tall windows as Puzo entered through the connecting door. “So,” he said, coming to stand next to her. “What do you think?”

She was silent for a moment as she looked out onto the wintry scene. The capitol was off to her right. It was an impressive structure of Colorado white granite. Topped by a round tower, it had a bell-shaped dome, reportedly made out of real gold. Ironically enough, it was intentionally reminiscent of the United States Capitol, which the Grace administration had been forced to flee.

Occasional flurries of snow made it difficult to see clearly but the range was reasonable, just as she had been told. “I can do it,” she said simply.

“Good,” Puzo replied. “Would you like some lunch? The Ridley has a good restaurant. Or so I hear.”

Susan felt slightly nauseous, and had ever since leaving Montana, so she shook her head. “No. Thank you. I’ll take a walk instead.”

Puzo shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let’s meet here at two P.M. We have lots of prep work to do.”

Susan nodded, but didn’t turn to look as Puzo left the room. She waited for the door to close, let her breath out, and was surprised to learn that she’d been holding it in. Then, standing on tiptoes, she reached up to turn the window latch sideways and free it from the catch. With that accomplished she bent over, took hold of both handles, and lifted.

Much to her relief the window rose smoothly, allowing a blast of cold air to enter the room. Susan stood there for a moment as the incoming breeze caused the curtains to billow, and directed her gaze to a point roughly a thousand yards away. That was where a crew of men were hard at work constructing a wooden platform. And that was the spot to which her future was irrevocably linked.

After many months of testing and inoculations Hale had come to detest hospitals. But after Operation Iron Fist, and the mission into Hot Springs, South Dakota, he felt an obligation to visit Dr. Linda Barrie to see how the scientist was doing. So having accompanied Cassie to the Denver Federal Center, Hale pried Barrie’s room number out of the woman on the hospital’s front desk, and went up to see her.

Thanks to her rank, Barrie had a room to herself. She said “Come in” when Hale knocked on the partially opened door. Her face was still a bit pale, but just as pretty as before, and seemed to brighten at the sight of him. She was out of bed, but sitting in a chair, and made no attempt to rise.

“Nathan!” she exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You look good,” Hale said awkwardly as he placed a small Christmas tree on a table. It had miniature ornaments and had been purchased in the gift shop downstairs. “Everybody says you’re doing well, too.”

What followed was an awkward conversation for the most part, since the operation that brought them together was over, and they didn’t have much to talk about. So the visit didn’t last long.

But as he got ready to go, Barrie motioned for him to come closer. Once Hale was close enough to touch she reached up to pull his head down. Their eyes were only inches apart when she spoke. “Thank you, Lieutenant Hale. Thank you for what you did for Anton, thank you for saving my life, and thank you for serving our country.” And then she kissed him on the cheek.

Hale mumbled something incoherent, fled the room for the hall, and felt glad to escape the hospital. The interaction with Barrie had left him feeling confused. Fortunately Hale had work to do, and was already thinking about it, as he followed a recently shoveled sidewalk out to the parking lot.

The LU-P Lynx Hale had been given to drive was just like the combat model he was used to except the machine gun was missing and a fabric roof had been fitted over the roll cage. The vehicle boasted a heater, but it couldn’t compete with the cold air that flooded in through the open sides, and made an impotent whirring noise as Hale started the engine, backed out of the parking slot, and followed the road to the main gate. Guards saluted the officer as he rolled past, turned onto Alameda, and followed the busy street toward Broadway.

The purpose of the outing was to visit the state capitol, which was going to be the site of Grace’s speech the following day. The Secret Service had primary responsibility for security, with lots of Denver police to provide backup, but a contingent of Sentinels would be present as well, in case of a Chimeran attack. The chances of something like that happening were extremely remote, but no one had been expecting a spire to land next to the Lincoln Memorial either.

So as Hale took a left on Broadway, and followed it to the state capitol, he was thinking about the stinks and what sort of damage they might do if a shuttle-load of them dropped out of the sky in the middle of the President’s speech. He was scheduled to check in with the Secret Service, and wanted to make certain they had arranged for air cover, so he went looking for a place to park. There wasn’t any, because the legislature was still in session and entire sections of the street had been roped off, allowing a succession of delivery trucks to unload.

A speaking platform had been built, VIP bleachers were in place to either side of it, and a temporary fence had been set up to control what was expected to be a record crowd.

Hale drove around for a while before locating a parking spot three blocks away. After walking back he had to show his military ID before being allowed onto the capitol grounds. The man in charge of security was a Secret Service agent named Mack Stoly. He was a natty little man who was dressed in a gray snap-brim hat, blue topcoat, and pin-striped suit. He was at the center of a discussion that involved two other men and Hale noticed Stoly was wearing shiny street shoes. As if the agent was unwilling to compromise with the elements.

Hale, who was dressed in a winter uniform plus overcoat and combat boots, paused a few feet away and stuck his hands in his pockets while he waited for the conversation to end. That gave him a chance to conduct a slow 360-degree inspection of the surrounding terrain. As he turned he saw the capitol, a variety of structures off to the right, the portion of Lincoln Street which had been temporarily blocked off, the Ridley Hotel, the Civic Center, a cluster of public buildings, and then back to the capitol. Hale was looking up at the golden dome, and blinking snowflakes away, when someone spoke to him. “Impressive, isn’t it?” It was the man he’d been waiting for. “My name’s Stoly. Are you Lieutenant Hale?”

“Yes I am,” Hale replied, as he shook the other man’s hand. Stoly had blue eyes, even features, and a cleft chin. If he thought the Sentinel’s golden yellow eyes were strange, he gave no sign.

“Thanks for coming over,” Stoly said. “With so many people involved in security, it’s critical that we coordinate things properly. This is a good opportunity to agree on where your men will be placed—and what they will be responsible for.”

“Sounds good,” Hale agreed, as he stuck his hands back into his pockets. “From what I was told, our job is to deal with the stinks should some of them drop out of the sky.”

“True,” Stoly acknowledged soberly. “It’s damned unlikely, but after what happened at the Lincoln Memorial, anything seems possible. So we’ve got to be ready. But you’ll have a secondary mission as well—and that’s crowd control. I’m told that the President’s Chief of Staff wants a big crowd. So, contrary to our advice, he decided to bus people in from the nearest Protection Camps. The problem is that a lot of the people who live in the camps aren’t very happy with the Grace administration. They aren’t allowed to own guns, thank God… But that doesn’t mean some whacko with a knife won’t try to rush the platform, or worse yet, twenty whackos with knives! So you and your men will be a welcome addition to our security team.”

Hale spent the next hour accompanying Stoly from place to place, chatting with various agents and police officials, and discussing how to best position his Sentinels. He remembered to ask about air support, and was relieved to learn that it had been arranged. Finally, once the tour was over, Hale was free to depart. Which was great, because Cassie was about to get off work, and he had promised to take her to dinner.

Hale was whistling as he crossed 14th and began the walk back to the Lynx. Maybe, had he been thinking about work, Hale might have noticed the young woman in the blue headscarf who passed not thirty feet away from him. Her name was Susan Farley—and she was there to kill the President.

God must have been listening to William Dentweiler’s prayers—because the day dawned bright and clear. It was also cold.

Very cold.

Which would have made things difficult had it been necessary to draw a Denver crowd. But thanks to busloads of citizens from the Protection Camps, all equipped with identical overcoats, box lunches, and “Noah Grace” signs, a sizable audience was guaranteed.

Meanwhile, Hale had men stationed on the capitol’s roof, to either side of the speaker’s platform, and on top of the barriers that had been used to block off part of Lincoln Street. Above, carving white lines across the sky, two flights of Sabre Jets could be seen ready to respond should Chimeran aircraft venture from the north.

So the stage was set as a cheer went up and the Army band played “Hail to the Chief.”

The Governor of the state of Colorado gave him a nice introduction, and President Grace was in an ebullient mood as he left the warmth of the capitol. He crossed the plaza and made his way down four short flights of steps to the platform below. He liked giving speeches, being at the center of attention, and hearing the applause. So even though his administration was beset by problems, here was a moment he could actually enjoy. As Grace stepped up to the bunting-draped podium, flashbulbs went off, the last strains of “Hail to the Chief” died away, and the applause began to fade.

“My fellow Americans,” Grace said, mindful of the fact that millions would hear his words over the radio. “Darkness continues to gather all around us, but here in the heartland of our country the sun is shining, and we have reason to rejoice!”

It was an applause line, and thanks to the twenty shills Dentweiler had positioned in the audience there was applause, which Grace acknowledged with a nod as he waited for the noise to die down.

What followed was a stirring list of victories, accomplishments, and positive trends all strung together to lift the cloud of gloom that hovered above so much of the nation. As Hale listened, even he began to feel better, in spite of the fact that he’d been to Chicago and seen firsthand what life was like in that city.

But Hale wasn’t there to listen. He was there to help provide security, which was why he kept his head on a swivel, his eyes scanning for any sign of a threat. There was nothing to see, however, not until he turned his gaze to the Ridley Hotel, and the dozens of windows that stared out onto the capitol grounds.

One of them was open, and that in spite of air so cold he could see his breath, and feel his fingers starting to grow numb. A guest perhaps? Determined to get a better view of the speech? Or something more sinister?

As Grace gave the crowd a somewhat embellished account of Operation Iron Fist, Hale brought his binoculars up to examine the front of the hotel. Try as he might Hale couldn’t see into the room. But as he continued to stare Hale saw a momentary flash of light which served to backlight both the person at the window and the familiar shape that was angled his way.

A Fareye! But then the image was gone, leaving Hale to wonder.

He blinked, hoping to somehow restore what he’d seen, but the room remained dark. Assuming he was correct, and not hallucinating, it was as if a light had been turned on behind the rifleman. Or a door had been opened into a well-lit space.

But what to do? Evacuate the President from the platform? That would be prudent, perhaps… But if the marksman was a Secret Service agent, or a photographer with a long lens, or a maid with a mop, a lot of people were going to be very angry.

But he couldn’t just let it drop.

Hale glanced around for Stoly, and saw him on the far side of the platform. The handheld radio he’d been given was for emergencies only, and therefore silent, as he brought it up to his lips.

“Hale to Stoly… Front of the hotel, third floor, open window… At least one person inside. Yours?”

There was a brief pause, followed by an emphatic reply.

“Hell no!”

Hale felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as he took three steps forward to the point where one of his soldiers was stationed. “Give me your rifle,” he ordered harshly, as he took the Fareye out of the man’s hands. “And stand perfectly still. I’m going to use you as a rest.”

As Hale laid the rifle across the Sentinel’s shoulder, and put his eye to the scope, Stoly hit Grace from the side. And when the President went down a projectile hit the Governor of Colorado—who had the painful misfortune to be standing directly behind Grace when the projectile was fired. The Governor made a grab for his shoulder as he fell, and the rest of the dignitaries scattered in every direction as the sound of the shot echoed between the surrounding buildings.

People began to scream.

Hale had the window centered under his crosshairs by that time, and even though he couldn’t see a clean target, he fired repeatedly. Hale figured that if he hit the would-be assassin, then that would be good, but even if he didn’t, the counterfire would probably be enough to ruin the bastard’s aim. And that would be sufficient. Because within minutes, five at most, Secret Service agents and policemen would storm the room. To his credit the Sentinel whose gun he had taken stood perfectly still as Hale continued to fire, brass casings arcing through the air, and people continued to scream.

The window was open, the dresser had been moved into position in front of it, and the rifle was resting on a carefully arranged sandbag. Susan swore as someone knocked Grace down and her bullet hit one of the men behind him. Then, as she worked another round into the Fareye’s chamber, some quick-thinking bastard fired at her.

Except that he missed, and Susan heard Puzo make a horrible gargling sound as the incoming bullet tore through his throat, and he brought both hands up in a futile attempt to stop the sudden spray of blood. Then he was falling, as another bullet whispered past her ear, and smashed into the mirror behind her.

Susan spent a fraction of a second analyzing the possibility of a follow-up shot on the President, saw that Grace was unreachable under a pile of protective bodies, and adjusted her aim. Secret Service agents would burst through her door within minutes, she knew that. But if she was going to die, why not take the man with the rifle with her? Because if anyone deserved to die, it was the army of assholes who supported Grace and kept him in office. Susan found her target, and prepared to squeeze the trigger. Then she saw the left side of the man’s face. “Nathan!” That was when a sledgehammer hit Su san’s head, and the long fall into darkness began.