Eagle ascending, p.25
Eagle Ascending, page 25
“Come with us!” Krueger yelled a second time, and he had to be restrained by Grimm who feared he would follow his grandfather into the flames. General Krueger did not look back.
He continued to walk toward the flaming banner and the drapes, and was soon lost to those red, rising flames, leaving his grandson with a memory that would never vanish.
Joe Krueger sighed deeply, a signal to his body that it had done enough, that it had risen to the challenge and overcome it. With the danger receding, Krueger felt his legs grow heavy. He fell to his knees and dropped his gun. The weight was too heavy for his bloodied hands.
Grimm and Brandt took Krueger before he could hit the rubble-strewn floor. “We are gonna get you out of here!” Grimm said, but Krueger never heard him.
The two friends dragged Krueger toward the closest exit, passing the True Cross as they did so. Grimm winced and reached out as if to touch the sacred timbers. “We have to save it!” he wailed.
“There’s no time,” Brandt reminded him and tried to drag Krueger further to the exit. Blue smoke was beginning to fill her lungs. Her strength would soon be entirely spent.
“It is our last physical link to the Son of God,” Grimm said, unmoving. Desire kindled in his eyes. “We have to save it. It’s… it’s God’s gift.”
Tessa Brandt, wise and defiant, shook her head. “Life is God’s gift, Barnaby,” she said. “That is what we must save.”
Grimm silently nodded his head in solemn agreement and took Krueger’s arm once again. They fled the blazing room, leaving the holy totem to the roaring flames.
WHEN DETECTIVE JOE KRUEGER awoke, he found himself outside the campus. He was lying on a gurney, surrounded by paramedics. Absently, Krueger raised a hand to his face and found his right eye swollen shut. But even in his weary, bloody state Krueger recognized the vivid red and blue light from the police sirens illuminating the walls of the burning building, and the footfalls of a black-clad SWAT team.
“Phone,” he said weakly.
“Joe!” said Tessa Brandt, emerging suddenly into his view. She had not left his side since their escape from the fiery wreck of the Gemini campus.
O’Brian was next to her. “You’re back, partner!” he said. “Listen, we couldn’t find that SOB Gates, but don’t worry. This city will be sealed up tight by the time you get to the hospital!”
But Krueger shook his head. He was done thinking about Gates and his evil. His thoughts lay now solely with his family. “Need to call Ma,” Krueger said. “Tell her it’s all over.”
“Maybe later, pal,” one of the paramedics said, engrossed in a clipboard. “Once we get you to the hospital.”
Brandt hissed at the paramedic and handed Krueger her cell. He paused, then dialed the number from memory. No son, no matter his injury, no matter his pain, forgets how to reach his mother.
“Joseph,” Trudy said expectantly on the other line.
Krueger chuckled, and realized he’d lost a tooth in the fight. “It’s all ok, Ma,” Krueger said. “Your father… my grandfather… he is at peace.”
Closing his eyes, Krueger imagined seeing his mother grip the phone, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“He was not a bad man,” she said. Krueger could hear relief—and defiance—in her voice.
“I know,” he said. “He loved you.”
“And I you,” Trudy replied.
Krueger ended the call with a promise that he would come visit the moment he was able. He meant it. Handing back the phone to Brandt, and remembering that his dreams were far better than the reality around him, Krueger allowed himself to sleep once more.
-19-
JOE KRUEGER LEANED FORWARD, and his healing ribs roared in protest. Despite the bandages and the bedrest and the pills, which Krueger took less of than his doctor recommended, his wounded body was still mighty sore. After five bored and restless days at Laguna Honda Hospital, he’d been discharged that morning on the solemn promise that he’d “take it easy,” a promise Krueger had no intention of keeping.
That’s because Krueger had much to do. Not only was his mother arriving the next day, but Colin Dubchek’s funeral was scheduled for the upcoming Sunday in New York. The young agent had given all that could be asked of a man and had done it for strangers he hardly knew. Remembering him in his last few moments, when he’d fought an armed opponent with courage that had terrified Gates’ addled mind, Krueger was determined to pay his last respects. In a world stained by the grime of crooks and terrorists, ordinary people needed to know about the bravery of men like Colin Dubchek. There was goodness out there, even if you couldn’t see it in the glare of the TV cameras that only seemed to follow the bad guys.
A smartly attired waiter placed a cup of tea on Krueger’s table. He was seated at a Japanese eatery in San Francisco, an upmarket joint with a pricey wine list and unpronounceable entrees, waiting for his other friends to arrive. He was glad to have this moment of peace. Freedom from the sterile hospital sure felt good. After all, that place had stifled his mind, smothering his fiery desire to discover the truth of what happened at Gemini. The hospital TV had proven a maddeningly poor source of information, and the online media, even the sources Krueger trusted, had only offered turgid tabloid fodder regarding the fire. Even the cops who had interviewed Krueger with callous indifference to his wounds offered only scraps of data to satiate his hunger for the truth.
“Damn it,” Krueger whispered to the world.
Tessa Brandt bounded into the restaurant and sat next to Krueger with uneasy relief etched on her freckled face. This was the first time she had seen him outside of the ward since the fire. Brandt’s eyes filled with concern when she saw Krueger struggling to retrieve his drink, so she brought the teacup closer to the edge of the table, smiling nervously as she did so.
Since the destruction of Gemini, Brandt had been striving with a huge conflict; she wanted both to forget, but also remember, the events of the last few weeks. She wanted to forget the violence and the rage…and yet she could not let it go until she knew the truth behind the magic they’d witnessed.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Brandt said and rested her head on Krueger’s shoulder.
Dazed, perturbed, and lost amid all the confusion and distrust, Krueger and Brandt had found themselves drawing ever closer to each other. Brandt had even spurned the offer of a plush taxpayer-funded hotel suite downtown, preferring instead to sleep on the ratty couch next to Krueger’s room in the hospital. She needed him, needed not only his strength but also his smile and confidence in the future. His very proximity was proof that everything, as they said in Hollywood, would be alright.
Krueger was no less grateful to the German doctor. Her tenderness was unlike anything he’d known in his harsh, war-weary life, and there were moments, tender and utterly unforgettable, when she stared into his vast grey eyes, stared past his deformity, and glimpsed into the naked soul of a man she cherished.
Krueger had realized, during those long nights laying on the starched sheets of his hospital bed, that he was falling in love, and the discovery had drawn little tears that ran joyfully down his bruised face.
Tessa broke Krueger’s reverie by fiddling with the lapel on his sport coat, a crisp grey affair she’d bought at the thrift store that morning.
“They teach you how to be a nurse in those history classes of yours?” Krueger asked mockingly as he drank his tea.
“Oh, they teach you things that mere mortals like you would never understand,” Tessa replied.
She leaned in and pecked Krueger’s cheek, a kiss that suggested she would not be walking out of Krueger’s life when she departed for Berlin the following day. The certainty of that fact stirred excitement in his heart, and he beamed as Tessa took his hand and squeezed it.
Sam O’Brian plopped himself down in the chair opposite, carrying a pitcher of beer in each hand and a whiskey chaser in his shirt pocket. The other diners looked at him as if they’d just scraped him off the bottom of their designer shoes.
“You were told Joe could have no alcohol!” Tessa protested.
“I know,” O’Brian said. “I got these babies for myself.” He meant it. Slurping on the foam, O’Brian sighed, stretched out, and put his hands behind his head like a retiree sitting on his sunny porch on a Sunday afternoon. “You’re looking better,” he said to Krueger. “That face fuzz is a good look on you.”
Krueger tugged at the beard he’d been growing during his long days in the hospital and agreed that it masked his deformity well. “I think I’ll keep it,” he said.
Brandt nodded her hearty approval.
“Atta boy,” O’Brian replied. The contents of half of the first pitcher was already in his belly.
“Easy on that, my good man,” said Barnaby Grimm, as he settled his cashmere-clad legs under the table. “I’ve ordered a bottle of Japanese whiskey. Good stuff, too.”
To his amazement, Krueger noticed that the dapper Dr. Grimm sat down with his white cheek and forehead fully exposed. He had not applied the makeup that obscured his illness.
“These last few days have taught me that life is too short to pretend to be anything other than what I really am,” Grimm said stiffly, as if sensing Krueger’s stares. Krueger, in turn, offered him a small smile and bowed his head, a gesture meant to convey his deepest respect.
Grimm’s words conjured a vivid flashback before Brandt’s eyes, and she saw once again the terrible tableau in which Colin Dubchek was slaughtered defending his newfound friends from harm. “I know what you mean,” she said, shivering.
“So I suppose you’re the one who made the reservation here?” O’Brian asked Grimm mockingly, changing the subject with the deft touch of an expert raconteur. He chuckled to himself as he stared at the bright pink handkerchief poking ostentatiously from the pocket of Grimm’s Savile Row suit, wondering how on Earth he’d managed to become friends with such a peacock.
“Not I,” Grimm answered, examining the menu languidly while O’Brian, wearing an old corduroy jacket with threadbare aplomb, ordered an assortment of fatty dishes.
“It was me,” came a sharp, confident voice from the entrance. “And perhaps we should save those type of refreshments till after I’ve left.” The fifth and last of the dinner guests had arrived: Special Agent Lucille Hawtrey of the FBI, newly restored to her position as head of the Counterterrorism Division. The President had made it known, publicly, that he’d personally asked her to remain in her post and had never had any doubts about her ability to bring down the culprits of the bombings. Not one.
Wearing a cream pant suit and matching heels, Hawtrey took her seat and ordered in accentless Japanese without glancing at the menu. She poured a cup of tea and let its steam hang over the table alongside the expectation.
“So is the FBI paying for this grub?” O’Brian asked. “I mean, you were the one who invited us here, after all, and I think I’d need a second mortgage just to sample to seaweed.”
“Relax,” Hawtrey said, waving her hand dismissively. “Uncle Sam is picking up the tab. It’s the least we can do for you.”
“So why did you bring us here?” Krueger asked, leaning forward and ignoring the burn in his ribs. “Hopefully you’re gonna tell me more than the clowns you sent to interview me at Laguna Honda.”
“Believe me, I’d have done the debrief myself, but the President ordered me back to Washington for a report on the situation.”
“So what can you tell us?” Grimm asked.
“Preston Gates is missing, presumed still alive,” she said curtly. “Of the three dozen bodies found in the blaze, dental records indicate that none of them are him.”
“And what about my grandfather?” Krueger asked. His eyes were wide, wondering what new horror would be told.
“His body was found near the center of the blaze. Dental and DNA analysis prove that it’s him.”
“Dear God,” Brandt whispered. She clutched Krueger’s hand once more. “So it’s true. He was resurrected by Gates and his neo-Nazis.”
Grimm and Hawtrey shared a knowing glance. “I’m afraid not,” Grimm said as tenderly as he could muster. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then how the Hell did a man with terminal cancer, a man who died decades ago in Germany, start walking around America planting bombs?” O’Brian shouted, before filling his mouth with a confection of items covered in tempura.
Hawtrey paused before answering as a waiter placed a small plate of raw squid before her. She thanked him and took the soy sauce.
“Look,” she said, “you see this squid? It’s dead right?” Her companions each nodded in agreement. “So how do you explain this?” she asked, before dousing the squid in the sauce. Immediately, the flaccid tentacles began to writhe on the plate.
“So that’s what health food looks like,” O’Brian said. “Glad I’m sticking to the fried stuff.”
“I knew the Japanese liked raw fish,” Krueger added, “but I thought they at least killed it first. Guess I was wrong to say it was dead.”
“Oh, it’s quite dead,” Hawtrey said, watching as the tentacles rhythmically rose and fell, as if waving to her. “What you are seeing here is an illusion, if you will. The salt in the soy sauce delivers ions into the cells, which in turn causes them to fire. Firing cells then move the squid’s tentacles in a way which suggests it is still alive, though it died hours ago.”
“Somehow I think this has something to do with my grandfather,” Krueger said.
“You are perceptive,” she replied. “My point is that science can trick the human mind into seeing life, when in fact, there is nothing but death. Joe, Preston Gates didn’t resurrect your grandfather. He just created the illusion that he did so.”
“How the Hell did he manage that?” O’Brian asked, suddenly not so interested in his tempura.
“Our engineers are still trying to discover the exact method by which he animated Krueger’s dead body, but it appears he ran an electrical current through the dead tissue. In combination with a series of remote-controlled pistons, which he surgically grafted onto the General’s joints, it created an utterly believable illusion. It is cutting-edge stuff; even my Ivy League nerd herd can barely comprehend it.”
“This sounds like garbage to me,” Krueger said. “I saw my grandfather’s eyes. I saw life behind him. He saved me!” Krueger smashed his fist on to the table. The glassware jumped, and the maître d'hôtel raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not as crazy as you think,” Grimm said, taking Krueger’s hand and putting a glass of expensive whiskey into it. “A man called Giovanni Aldini pioneered the theory that electricity could move dead bodies back in nineteenth-century Italy. He made a small fortune selling tickets to his shows where he made dead animals move by applying electric shocks to them.”
“And Indonesia provides another example,” Hawtrey said, placing a crisp manila folder on the table and pulling the relevant documents.
Piles of food were being placed on the table by anxious waiters, but only Grimm’s whiskey, it seemed, was being touched. It alone provided the fortitude the companions needed.
“The Toraja people are a tribe native to the mountains of South Sulawesi, and it seems they have a rather odd tradition regarding their dead relatives. Every few years, they will exhume their dead parents, siblings, even their departed children, and give them a wash and change of clothes before burying them again. But in the seventies, this tradition began to change. Western tourists reported that the dead would walk out of their graves, receive their ghastly make-over, and then return to their resting place. Locals suspected black magic, but western experts suggest these mountain people have found a way to hook generators up to these dead bodies.”
“If you keep talking like this, I may to arrest you on suspicion of drug abuse.” O’Brian said, a quip that earned him a swift rebuke from Hawtrey’s narrowing eyes.
She flung the huge Irish cop two glossy full-color photographs: high-quality images that suggested they were taken by a large, modern camera. The pictures showed eager-faced Indonesians standing next to their green-fleshed dead relative. Its nose had rotted away leaving a black maw; its eyes had sunk into the back of its skinless, dusty skull.
“Well, I’m about ready for the check,” O’Brian said.
“That would explain all the computers Gates kept in the auditorium,” Brandt said. “I always wondered what those guys in the white coats were doing when General Krueger made his entrance. They were controlling him like a puppet.”
“But this can’t be,” Krueger replied in a small voice. He remembered the fear, the sorrow in his grandfather’s eyes. Those were emotions that no one, not even a prince of Silicon Valley, could manufacture.
“The autopsy report is here,” Hawtrey said softly, pushing the stapled pages across the table. “It proves everything O’Brian told you about the impossibility of cryogenic freezing. The ice that formed in your grandfather’s body destroyed cells in every organ. His heart, brain, and lungs were all shredded.”
Krueger turned away, unable to look at the text.
“But the Cross,” Brandt said. “Gates got his hands on the True Cross. Why would he go to such lengths if it was just a charade?”
“On this matter, we are on much surer ground,” Grimm said. “We found the Cross in the remains of the Gemini building.”
“Destroyed behind all recognition, I suppose,” Krueger said sullenly.
Grimm smiled and flashed another photograph. It showed the tall, wooden cross and the titulus hanging above it. It was surrounded by the blackened dreck of Gates’ ruined Nazi temple. But the cross itself had been spared the wrath of the flames. It still stood proudly; the text on the titulus was as clear as the day Pilot’s minions had carved it.
“A miracle,” Brandt said breathlessly.
“Perhaps,” said Hawtrey, “or perhaps the centuries spent buried in the damp earth surrounding Hattin left the Cross flame resistant.”
