A Mighty Fortress Page 8

  “Nah, no need,” replied Bells. “They never bother to run ballistics any more, they just call the meat wagon and mop up the blood. They’ll know who did it, and if they catch us it ain’t like we got to worry about going to any kind of trial no more. So go ahead and pick yourself a good piece, not a throwaway.”

  “Got mine, then,” said Cody, selecting a 9-millimeter Russian-made Makarov automatic.

  “Good choice,” said Bells with a nod. Jumping Jack Flash chose a 9-millimeter Heckler and Koch P7, and Bobby Bells handed them extra magazines and boxes of ammunition to load the clips with. He himself carried on old, well-oiled Model 1911 Colt .45 in his belt. It had been his father’s service-issue handgun in Vietnam and was his good luck piece. “Farmer Brown and Eddie Hagen will be backing you guys up with long arms in case anything goes wrong,” Bells reminded them. He politely avoided saying in case you freeze. “They’ll be packing AKS-74s with folding stocks, and armored-piercing ammo to cut through any kevlar the Fed may be wearing. We got a lot of those nowadays,” he said, pointing to a table stacked high with the Russian rifles. “Came in on a freighter from the Motherland or something, along with a whole shitload of Russian-made 5.45-millimeter ammo. Might as well use ‘em. They’re light and compact when they fold down, and they got a hell of a punch. We’re going to have to leave now, since we’re taking the long way around into the city around the lake, because of those damned Fattie roadblocks on the bridges which will be stacking up traffic until eight o’clock tonight. Before we go, though, we give both the Cadillac and the Cherokee a once-over, including the engines. Functioning transportation is just as important as functioning firearms when you’re on a tickle. You don’t want to run out of gas or have your vehicle cut out on you because of some kind of mechanical trouble in the middle of a hit or while you’re running from Fattie. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  As the two carloads of NVA gunmen crept slowly across town from the East Side into the city itself, heading for Capitol Hill, the two commanders of the brigade arrived back at Mrs. Sweetzer’s place. At about eight o’clock at night, with the sky still bright and sunny outside and the temperature in the balmy high eighties, there was the sound of a vehicle outside. Barrow and Dortmunder admitted a nondescript man in a suit and spoke with him for a bit while he checked out the room and saw that it was safe. Then he leaned out the door and gestured to a fourth person out on the stairs. The man who entered the room was thin and bespectacled, with salt-and-pepper hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a cardigan sweater even in the summer warmth and looked like Mr. Rogers. His code name in fact was Mr. Chips, due to his former profession as a schoolteacher. “Hey, Red,” said Barrow, shaking his hand. “Any trouble getting in?”

  “We were stopped at a roadblock at the 85th Street exit,” said Colonel Red Morehouse of the Third Section and the NVA Army Council. “Nothing out of the ordinary, couple of Fatties and some cops. They had sniffer dogs. Our guns were in the side boxes hidden in the doors. For the record, those sachets of Joe Cord’s work. Our gun boxes each had one of those little bags of goo and the dogs couldn’t smell a thing.”

  “Except maybe me shitting in my pants,” muttered the driver. “God, I hate those dogs!”

  “Yeah, I know they work,” said Barrow. “I was able to get through a checkpoint a week ago. Dex, you hungry? I got a burger in here and a fish sandwich, and there’s drinks in the fridge.” He tossed the driver a fast food bag.

  “Thanks, Commandant,” said Dex. He took a soft drink in a can from the refrigerator and left the apartment to go downstairs and wait by the car. Barrow gestured towards another bag on the formica table.

  “No thanks, Frank, but I will take a ginger ale if you’ve got,” said Morehouse. Dortmunder pulled one out of the ice box and they sat down. Morehouse got right to the point. “I normally wouldn’t insult either of you comrades by reminding you of security procedure, but guys, I’ve got to have your absolute word that this does not go any further than this room. This is arguably the most important communication you will ever receive from command.”

  “The Feds have finally agreed to surrender?” chortled Dortmunder off-handedly.

  “So it would seem,” replied Morehouse in a level voice. There was dead silence for a long, long moment. Barrow suddenly had to remember to breathe.

  “Spill it,” he said, his voice choking. Dortmunder’s mouth hung open.

  Morehouse continued, as calmly as if he were lecturing his students about William Jennings Bryan and the free silver issue of the 1890s. “About a month ago the Old Man was approached in his cell in Florence Federal penitentiary by a delegation of high muckety-mucks from D.C., headed by none other than the United States Secretary of State, the Honorable Walter Stanhope. The result of that meeting was that the Old Man has been transferred to more comfortable accommodation within the prison and is suddenly being treated with all kinds of bowing and scraping, although he’s still incommunicado. Commandant Alex Barrett was released from Florence and dropped off at a hotel in Olympia, about ten days ago. Barrett was accompanied by a Swiss gentleman from the International Red Cross and a second man, a United Nations diplomat from the Republic of Ireland named O’Connell. Barrett took two days to make sure that he wasn’t being followed, and got rid of all the clothing and every article they gave him to make sure nothing had been planted in them by way of an electronic tracking device, and then he re-established contact with the NVA and brought the two others in to speak with members of the Army Council.” Morehouse sighed and took a deep breath. “They want to talk.”

  “The Federal government of the United States? They want to talk to us?” demanded Barrow incredulously.

  “Yes. They sent the Red Cross guy and the Irish diplomat to vouch for the sincerity of their intentions, knowing that we wouldn’t trust a damned thing any of them had to say if it was written in Chelsea Clinton’s blood. They want to talk about ending the war, or resolving the civil conflict, as they put it. They want to call a peace conference. Nice polished mahogany table, briefcases, international observers, cocktail parties, re-drawing maps, the whole nine yards.”

  There was a long moment of stunned silence. “Dear God, we’ve won!” choked Dortmunder, his face white and his jaw slack.

  “Is this confirmed?” asked Barrow, still unable to grasp it. “It’s not some kind of trick?”

  “Christ, who the hell knows with these people? It may well be a trick,” conceded Morehouse. “It may well be that the Jews and the super-wealthy Anglo-Saxon bluebloods who actually run this society have no intention of giving us our independence, and this whole thing is some kind of stratagem or gull on their part. In fact, I doubt if they do intend to give us anything meaningful, but the mere fact that such an approach is being made at all tells us that freedom is now possible. They wouldn’t even have considered such a thing unless we have beaten them to their knees, even worse than we know. Applesmash and Pigkill and bombing out their electrical power grids have reduced the entire U. S. infrastructure to jelly. The whole evil empire is on the verge of collapse, we know that much. It’s possible that they’re now weak enough so we can take what they don’t want to give. But as much as I hate to throw cold water on something I can scarcely believe myself, we haven’t won yet. Not by a long shot. This whole business may come to nothing. But as nearly as we can tell, the offer of talks is genuine, and unconditional.”

  “What the hell did the Army Council do?” demanded Barrow.

  “We started making conditions,” said Morehouse with a grin. “We sent the messengers back and told them flat out that we didn’t believe them, and we wouldn’t even talk about talks about talks until they made a good faith gesture to convince us they meant it, specifically prisoner release. Historically, in these situations that’s always the key. No occupying power is ever serious about withdrawal unless they’re willing to release prisoners.

  “We actually had a procedure for such an eventuality planned this far, for the time when this wou
ld happen. It’s essential that the United States understand that they are going to be forced to put something substantial on the table, and that we will not be fobbed off with words. We just heard back from the Red Cross, and while needless to say the first quibbles and caveats and yes-buts were already there, the régime has agreed in principle to release a significant number, as they put it, of Party prisoners once we agree to meet with them. Of course, our idea of what constitutes a significant number and their idea are likely to be quite different. The Army Council is drawing up a list right now, but so far it looks like this is legitimate. Now you understand why I insisted that this must not get out! We don’t yet fully understand the political and other dynamics at work here, but I can tell you right now that for anyone in the U. S. government to get anything like this through against the resistance of the Jews and the dead-enders and die-hards in the power structure must have been like pulling teeth. Somebody’s got to be serious about it. Any premature disclosure could screw the pooch for good and keep this godawful war going for the next generation. Look, we always knew that at some point the shooting would have to stop once we’d beaten the bastards down far enough, and we’d have to work out the actual nuts and bolts of a sovereign and independent Aryan nation. But we never had a clue as to when or how this could happen. This is uncharted territory, and God alone knows what will happen.”

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Barrow.

  “Sit tight, say nothing, and be prepared to implement any order the Army Council may give,” said Morehouse. “Any settlement talks will have two basic elements from our point of view, both fraught with difficulty and danger. The first element will be a ceasefire, a cessation of hostilities. That is going to be very hard to enforce. Shooting people is a very easy habit to get into and very hard to break, and besides, it’s such jolly fun. There will be elements on both sides that don’t want to stop.

  “The second aspect will the emergence of the NVA and the Party from the underground and our preparation to assume state power within the Homeland. The ceasefire while negotiations go forward will probably be theoretically what will be called ‘in place,’ meaning each side holds its position and doesn’t attack the other, but since we have no position to hold, that’s going to be a problem. We have to grab hold of one. The Council has already decided that we will use any period of non-belligerence in order to glom onto as much territory and gear as possible. If talks do begin, while they are going on we have to physically displace the Federal forces as much as we can, and get our hands on as much territory and plant and as many economic assets as possible, without actually starting the war back up again.

  “More importantly, we have to make the transition orderly and avoid chaos and mass flight from the Homeland by millions of people who are just plain scared and confused, and who we need to stay here and help us build a new land. Remember, many of our own people genuinely believe all the Federal propaganda about how we’re criminal lunatics who want power in order to rape and slaughter at will, and establish some kind of totalitarian tyranny so we can tell everyone what color socks to put on in the morning. Some of the severe measures we have been compelled to take, and will be compelled to take in the future, will reinforce that impression.”

  “It is kind of hard to convince people of our benign intentions with a smoking Kalashnikov in one hand,” commented Dortmunder dryly.

  “I know,” continued Morehouse. “All this means that we are going to have to vastly expand the NVA very quickly indeed, arm and train and organize thousands of troops, and get ready to move into the vacuum left by the departing Americans. We’re going to have to stop being guerrillas and become a real army, and we’re not going to have much time to do it in. Getting the men won’t be a problem. You know that once it became clear Northwest Migration was a serious movement, we’ve always had more people than we knew what to do with, and at any given time there have been hundreds of people wandering around Portland and Seattle and Spokane looking to join the NVA, they just didn’t know where to find us. But turning those men into a responsive and capable military force will be something else.”

  “You don’t want us to cease hostilities right away, do you?” asked Barrow, thinking of the assassination of Country Joe and Kappy which must be going on even as they spoke. “I mean, shouldn’t there be some kind of formal agreement or treaty or something before we cease fire?”

  “No, until such time as you hear for sure, it’s business as usual,” Morehouse assured them. “In fact, it might be a good idea if we spanked them a little bit harder than usual over the next couple of weeks to make it clear that any deals the Party makes are very much made from a position of strength. Just bear in mind that from now on, we’re on a tightrope. One slip and we can lose everything we’ve gained. We’ve lost a lot of fine, brave people in these past five years, starting with Gus Singer and his family on that October 22nd when It Takes A Village came for them in Coeur d’Alene and got their asses shot off by the neighbors. We have to make sure they didn’t die in vain.”

  * * *

  The city of Seattle might be hot during the day in the summertime, but global warming or not, it still wasn’t anywhere near as bad as most of the rest of the country. At least in Seattle it cooled off at night. Barrow, Dortmunder, and Morehouse were still conferring at the house in Ballard over an hour later, as the two NVA cars from A Company casually rolled down Broadway and through the labyrinth of back streets on Capitol Hill, wending in and out among the stately Victorian mansions that had once been home to lumber barons and businessmen in the days of Teddy Roosevelt. Bobby Bells was driving the Cadillac. They kept carefully within the speed limit and made all their turn signals. They passed the bumpy and depressed stretch of pavement where the airplane had crashed back in the spring. The car windows were rolled down, and the newly dark air coming through them was now cool, mildly damp from a light rain about an hour before.

  The streetlights and the windows of the stores and restaurants and bars lit the night with pale glow, a slight mist hanging in a nimbus around each light, and the sound of the tires on the street was wet. Well-known local landmarks slid by in the lambent light. The Sorrento Hotel, Pilgrim Church, Seattle Central Community College, museums and coffeehouses, hole-in-the-wall shops that still managed to hang on by doing a reduced business with the students and remaining locals. They cruised past the hastily-renamed Diversity Park on 15th Avenue. The fine stand of greenery on the hillside in the midst of the urban landscape had originally been named Volunteer Park by the designers in Seattle’s early years, but on the outbreak of the NVA campaign the chagrined city council had quickly changed the name to celebrate a diversity that no longer existed, since the Volunteers of latter days had decimated the neighborhood’s alternative population, as the motley crew of colorful inhabitants been called. Within the park stood the skeletal remains of the Seattle Asian Art Museum, a ghastly 1933 art-deco structure which had been bombed out by the NVA during the first year of the war and never rebuilt.

  Just north of the park the two vehicles cruised by Lakeview Cemetery, then turned right and slid around the Arboretum. “We should be hearing from Nightshade any time now,” said Bobby Bells, pressing the cell phone in his pocket. “I know I’m goin’ in circles, but I don’t want to get too far from the Strawberry.” The men in the car eyed the almost empty streets. “Gee, I don’t see no faggots out here walking hand in hand no more,” chuckled Bells reminiscently.

  “Did those guys really do that kind of thing?” asked Cody in some disbelief. Farmer Brown looked back at him indulgently.

  “This young feller ain’t never seen faggots in public, Lieutenant,” he laughed. “Never saw this neighborhood back in its heyday, I guess.”

  “I grew up in Centralia, until my dad…until It Takes A Village got me and sent me to those kikes in Frisco,” said Cody.

  “Yeah, well, there was a time when this whole part of town reeked of Vaseline,” said Brown. “How old are you now, Cody?”

>   “Eighteen years old today, in fact,” replied Cody.

  “Yeah?” said Brown. “Well, happy birthday, young man. As the commandant of Auschwitz said to the Führer, if I’d known in time I would have baked a kike. So you would have been about thirteen when the war started?”

  “Yeah. I got the privilege of seeing 10/22 from the Jewish viewpoint, when I was with the Sapirsteins,” said Cody with a scowl.

  “That must have been a real trip!” said Bells.

  “You haven’t seen hysteria until you see a whole shul full of hebes who are suddenly afraid again,” said Cody with a bitter laugh. “And you the only goy in the place.”

  “You lived in San Francisco, and yet you really never seen two men cuddling and snogging in public, joined at the beard? Or two dykes tongue-slurping each other in a Starbucks?” asked Farmer Brown, getting back onto the original subject. Thinking about the Sapirsteins was a distraction the boy could do without at this particular crucial moment in his life and career. Cody had never actually declined to speak of his foster family, but Brown knew that the very thought of that time in his life made the kid physically ill, made him shake and mutter. Something very bad had happened, that Brown and Bells could see, but everyone in the NVA had their own personal horror story of life under political correctness, and it was understood that one never asked for anything that wasn’t volunteered.