Allied powers, p.3
Allied Powers, page 3
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Allie screeched, staring at the body, but Paul pushed her into the passenger’s side of the car, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Get in the car!” I urged Zack, scanning around for more threats, gun held close to my chest in a retention grip.
No one else tried to charge us, but there were people screaming at me, pointing fingers if not guns.
“You killed him!” a woman yelled. I couldn’t tell which of them she was because all of them were buried under loose, black clothes. “You killed him!”
There was no use denying it, nor was there any good to come from pointing out he’d deserved it. I stepped into the open front passenger’s side door, standing in it with my pistol at the ready.
“Get us out of here, Paul,” I told him.
No one blocked our way, rightly believing I’d shoot them, and within seconds, we were out of the chaos and violence and onto the open road. I slipped inside and shut the door. My hands didn’t start shaking until I tried to put the SIG back into its holster.
“What do we do?” Paul asked me, his eyes wide and filled with disbelief. “Where do we go?”
Good question.
Allie and Zack were both staring at me, though there was horror in my ex-wife’s face and something more akin to awe in my son’s.
“Someone will have recorded it,” I said, my voice breaking just slightly. “They’ll have your license tag. Take us to the nearest police station. I need to turn myself in.”
3
I know what I should have done. It was the thing that every course I’d taken, every article I’d read, every video I’d watched had told me to do. I should have told the cops immediately that I wanted to speak to an attorney before I answered any questions. But I’d spent too much time in the military, basically in special operations, in situations where shooting the bad guys wasn’t abnormal, wasn’t something you even had to file a report about, it was just another day at the office.
So, I gave them the facts just the way I would have in an After Action Review. This happened, then that, then this. And then I did it again. And again. And again. For three fucking hours before I finally lost my patience.
“I need to make a phone call,” I told them. “I have to report in.”
“Maybe later,” the fat man said. I don’t know what it is about detectives. In the movies and on TV shows, they’re these lean, hard, angry men and women who chase down suspects in their suits and loafers—or high heels—and get in fistfights with much younger people.
The only thing Detective Sgt. Cliff Madison had ever chased down was a double-cheeseburger, and from the looks of his bulging belly, the burger had lost, bad. His face was florid, his mustache drooping like he’d just stepped out of a hot shower, and the too-bright lights in the interrogation room gleamed off his bald head. His suit looked as if he’d bought it ten years and thirty pounds ago and the man’s attempt at a sympathetic expression better resembled an indigestion attack.
“Maybe later, huh?” I repeated, cocking my head to one side, viewing him like I would some curious and rare animal in a cage. “You do know that I report directly to the President of the United States, right? And while that doesn’t and shouldn’t excuse me from the criminal justice process just like any other citizen, it sure as hell means they want to know where I am and what I’m doing. And it also means that shit rolls downhill, Detective. And if you don’t let me report in, you’re going to be what we call in the military a shit-collector.”
“Look, Major…” he began, but I wouldn’t let him get away with that, either.
“Colonel. It’s Lieutenant Colonel Clanton now, if you didn’t bother to check my military ID.”
“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t look very sorry. “Colonel, this is a very delicate situation.” He sighed and I tried not to recoil from his stale breath. “I’ll be straight with you. There’s a lot of pressure on this because of the political nature of the protest. You came here from out of town and took part in a potentially dangerous counter-demonstration and…”
“Whoa,” I said, holding up a hand. At least they hadn’t cuffed me. “Full stop, Detective. I came from out of state to spend time with my son and I was having dinner downtown. I didn’t take part in anything except a clear-cut case of self-defense. My son was attacked, and a man with a gun was about to shoot him…and me. I legally defended myself. End of story. You, or the police chief, or the mayor tries to put any other spin on this, well, let’s just say that the President will be the least of your worries. I’m not some poor schlub who can’t afford an attorney. I could afford a pretty damn good set of them on my own, and my son’s stepfather, who even likes me, can swing a hell of a lot better one. So, after they get any potential case you might delude yourself into thinking you have thrown out of court, then they’ll sink their teeth into this city for defamation.” I sighed, settling back in the uncomfortable, hard-plastic chair. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s time I got my attorney in here, if you won’t allow me to report to my superiors myself. But before I do, I want to give you a gift. You know that SIG you took from me? It’s military-issue and like all modern military-issue weapons, it comes equipped with an on-board shot camera. Tiny thing they can fit right inside the recoil spring guide rod. Automatically starts taking video the second it’s pulled out of the holster and saves everything for a minute before and after it’s fired.”
“Well, that would be in evidence…” he began, but I cut him off.
“Let me finish.” I arched an eyebrow. “That video is automatically uploaded through my government-issue phone, which is also in evidence, to a server.” I shrugged. “Multiple servers. One of them is military, one government, and I have access to both, so on the way over here, I downloaded a copy and sent it to my wife.” I eyed the clock on the wall. It was old-fashioned, analog. I wondered how many of the younger cops here could even read it. “By now, it’s been released to multiple news agencies, and I’m pretty sure the statements of my ex-wife and her husband are out there, too.”
Madison tried to look nonchalant, as if this meant nothing to him, but a single bead of sweat trickled down the side of his head. Then again, it was uncomfortably warm in here. Intentionally so, no doubt.
“You go tell your chief and the DA that it doesn’t matter how unpopular the President might be in certain circles at the moment, or how unpopular our involvement in the Alliance is. It doesn’t matter if there’s a political shitstorm and they want to blame somebody famous to redirect the fire away from the mayor for not letting the cops have a presence at that riot. Because the full story of what happened is going to beat any press release they might think about making. Then you go ahead and get me my lawyer, and when he shows up, that’s the next time I plan on saying anything.”
“All right, then.” Madison had a tablet in a leather case and he folded it up and scooted away from the table. “Then I’ll just have them come transfer you to the jail.”
I said nothing, just gave him an offhand wave. The thought of jail didn’t scare me. Prison…that would have scared me, but not just some city holding cell. I settled in and tried to control my breathing, forcing myself to believe that. The cops would be watching, and whatever fashion and personal hygiene failures Detective Madison might have, he was probably pretty good at reading people. At least criminals. I had to appear unconcerned.
It's going to be okay. Julie knows where I am, Paul and Allie know where I am. Julie will have told Mike, and Mike will have told the President. Everything’s going to be okay.
I don’t know how long I sat in there, talking to myself. I could have checked the clock, but I didn’t think about it until after Madison pushed the door open. An older woman in a much nicer suit stood behind him, arms crossed, an expression on her face like she’d just bitten into a lemon. Neither of them, I noted, had bothered to take advantage of the Helta regeneration process, despite the fact that it was free to everyone.
“Come with us,” the woman snapped. She wasn’t a detective, I could tell that much from the quality of her clothes and haircut. I pegged her as the police chief.
I carefully didn’t smile as I stood. If they’d been about to take me to jail, they’d have uniformed officers there ready to handcuff me. But I also didn’t want to antagonize them, so I stayed silent and followed the chief out through the bullpen, Madison trailing behind, all the way to the front door of the station. It was pitch-black outside, Zero Dark Thirty, the glare from the street lights harsh and unforgiving, and winking in pinpoint reflections off the silvery finish of the small, VTOL jet that sat in the parking lot between an Austin PD SUV and someone’s private vehicle.
It was one of the newer model personal transports that Gatlin Aerospace had been cranking out as a private-sector money-maker while they worked on all those government contracts. This one wasn’t private sector, though, wasn’t my old buddy Daniel Gatlin come to bail me out. It had government markings, though that was as far as its identification went. The side door hung open, a short staircase folded down to the pavement, and beside the staircase stood a man in a dark suit and sunglasses. He was a federal agent of some sort, I knew that much, though it wasn’t immediately clear from where. The suit was too nice for FBI, and the haircut too close to military. The sunglasses would be night-vision devices, which could mean Army Intelligence, Defense Intelligence Agency or just a generic DoD hired gun.
Madison stopped me with a hand on my arm and handed me a plastic bag with my wallet and phone in it.
“We’re keeping the gun until the investigation is over,” he added, and his chief shot him a disdainful look, as if he should have assumed I’d know that.
“Be available,” the woman told me, a note of warning in her voice. “We may have more questions.”
“That’s up to the Bugs,” I reminded her, pointing upward.
“Please get in, sir,” the man in the sunglasses said very politely, but with the unmistakable backing of implied violence.
I nodded and clambered up into what was a very well-appointed cabin for a government bird. Faux leather, entertainment console, the whole nine yards. The flight crew didn’t look back at me, mumbling some technical exchange with the local traffic control, and from the shouting I heard leaking through their headphones, the local boys weren’t all that happy about the VTOL landing in the middle of the city. Not that there was much they could do about it.
I found a seat and plopped down in it, reveling in the padded comfort after hours sitting on standard police station hard plastic. The engines were screaming to life before Sunglasses even had the door all the way shut and I willed them on with my good wishes, eager to be out of here.
“Are we going to DC?” I asked Sunglasses as he strapped into a seat just behind the cockpit, facing me.
“No, sir,” he said. “Staging Base Alpha. Idaho,” he added, as if I might not know where that was. “Everyone is being called in.” He shrugged apologetically. “That’s all I know.”
A roaring that seemed to come as much from inside my head as from the plane’s engines accompanied the elevator-up feeling and my fingers tightened on the armrests until the variable-thrust nozzles swiveled backward and the distant lights outside began falling behind. I hissed out a breath. There was something unnatural about a VTOL.
My phone vibrated inside the bag and I sighed, ripping open the plastic and grabbing the earbud from its mount on the side of the device. The screen had a number, but not one I recognized.
“Clanton,” I answered, touching the earbud.
“Jesus, Andy,” Michael Olivera grumbled, “you go on leave and you still wind up shooting someone.”
I grimaced. I know Mike didn’t mean to be an asshole, but there was a qualitative difference between mowing down Bugs, or Tevynians or even Russian mercenaries and plugging some idiot kid who thought being young and passionate meant he had the right to kill someone for ideology.
“Thanks for getting me out,” I said instead of the curse words hammering at the back of my head.
“Thank Tommy Caldwell,” he told me. “I’m a general, but I don’t have that much pull with the Austin PD.” Caldwell had been the President’s National Security Advisor, but he’d recently been promoted to Secretary of Defense. At least, I think it was a promotion. The Senate had to vote on it, anyway.
“Are you already in Mountain Home?” I asked him, changing the subject.
“Negative. I’ll be there day after tomorrow, unless I get called back to DC.” There was a change in his tone, some of the lightheartedness draining out of it. “Hey, Andy, I know this has to be hard for you, so I just wanted to let you know…those protestors weren’t just your average disaffected youth living in momma’s basement. The initial intelligence report I was read into says they’re being funded and organized by outside agitators. The usual suspects.”
“Russia and China,” I assumed, purposefully relaxing my jaw so I wouldn’t grind my teeth. “Those fucking assholes just don’t know when they’re beat.”
“Would we? Anyway, this isn’t just a spontaneous series of demonstrations in reaction to the President’s announcement about the Bugs, and you didn’t hear this from me, but I’d be willing to bet this whole impeachment thing is about more than just politics as usual.”
“What should I do?” I asked him. The question was an earnest one, because while I gave Mike Olivera shit about being a political officer sometimes, the truth was, I didn’t know a damned thing about politics.
“Sit tight at Alpha Base,” he told me. “Once we have everyone together, we can wrap our heads around this better.”
“Okay, will do, sir.”
“You must be worried, Andy,” Olivera said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You called me sir.”
He hung up and I stared at the screen for a moment, wondering who I should call. I thought about trying Allie or Zack, but I figured they’d be asleep. I’d send them a text in the morning. Later in the morning. But there was one person who wouldn’t be sleeping, not with everything going on. She picked up on the first ring.
“Nieves,” Julie said automatically, then corrected herself. “Nieves-Clanton, sorry.”
“You should be,” I chided playfully. “We’ve only been married a year and you’re already forgetting about me.”
“What?” she asked, and if there was the slightest catch in her voice before the smart-assery kicked in, most people wouldn’t have heard it. “You mean those idiots let you out? Damn it, and here I was hoping to get my hands on the vast Clanton fortune.”
“Thanks for passing the word up the food chain,” I told her, earnest now. “If the White House hadn’t gotten involved, God only knows how long they’d have held me. And I’m too damn pretty to be in jail.”
The wordless snort at that made me smile despite everything.
“You still in Hawaii?” I wondered.
“Yeah, I’ll be flying out tomorrow afternoon.” Frustration dragged down her tone. “It’s been a Goddamned year, almost, and I only got two days with her.”
“I know exactly how you feel.” I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “Maybe when everything dies down, we can see them again.”
“Maybe.” Julie didn’t seem any more convinced of that than I did. “See you in a couple days. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The agent was trying not to stare at me as I hung up and I chuckled, recognizing the look.
“Go ahead, out with it.”
“Did you really know James Bowie, sir?” He slipped off the sunglasses and tucked them into his pocket. Something about the set of his eyes told me he was older than he looked. “He and I served together a ways back. I know the books and the movie said you guys were close friends, but…”
“But we both know how full of shit most military documentaries are,” I finished for him. I glanced around. “Is there a refrigerator in this thing?”
The agent nodded, unbuckling long enough to pull open what had looked like a storage cabinet.
“No beer or anything,” he apologized, “but we got Coke, Sprite, Diet Coke…”
“Diet, please.” I took it from him and chugged about half of it. My mouth was filled with cotton after talking to the cops for so long. “Yeah, I guess it’s fair to say that Jambo was my best friend. I can’t say for sure I was his, but I think I might have been.”
“The way he died, was it like they say?”
I searched the agent’s face, wondering what answer he was searching for.
“Jambo died fighting,” I said. “He died doing more than we had to do.” The memory flickered behind my eyes and tugged at something in my chest. “He died following my lead, and God knows, maybe he shouldn’t have. He deserved that fucking medal. Me…probably not so much. I don’t know that I did anything anyone else wouldn’t have done under the circumstances.”
The agent laughed softly.
“Isn’t that what they all say? The ones who’re still alive when they get it?”
“All medals are posthumous,” I assured him, closing my eyes and letting my head rest back against the seat. “Eventually.”
4
The flight to Mountain Home was less than four hours, which would have been great except I actually fell asleep. I don’t sleep on airplanes like, ever, not even when I was in the Marines and riding transports all the way down to South America. The NCOs, the enlisted, everyone was sleeping, with their heads resting against cargo containers, and I’d be sitting there, writing letters to Allie and going over the op order, sandpaper in my eyes.
Not this time. Between the adrenaline dump and the stress of the police interrogation, I went out like a light and didn’t wake up until the agent tapped me on the shoulder to let me know we were descending.
Staging Base Alpha had grown in the last three years, expanding like a Boise suburb as the training facilities for the Svalinn armor took in more and more units and additional shuttles came off the line and then flew here for flight checks. There were seven barracks buildings and a whole cookie-cutter single-family-home neighborhood for the resident officers and high-ranking NCOs. I couldn’t imagine anyone bringing their families out here, though I suppose there was a school out here somewhere.
