Bednarski shook his
head.
“I don’t buy it.
They may be thinking about it, for all the reasons you mentioned, but
I just don’t see them putting it all together. Even with ringers
from out-of-state, these local Catholic boys just aren’t the
suicide type. Hit-and-run is their game. They go for soft targets and
quick getaways, with IEDs, mortar attacks and sniping.”
“I wouldn’t
underestimate these people, Chief,” Linder warned. “They believe
the President is out to destroy their church; to them, he’s the
Antichrist. Don’t forget that, when street fighting first broke out
here, Catholic churches in the inner city were torched and white kids
caught with crucifixes or St. Christopher medals around their necks
were pulled out of their cars and clubbed to death. Many of the
militia’s most loyal recruits are first- and second-generation
immigrants. America is their last stand.”
“Warren is right,”
Denniston agreed. “I think it would be a mistake to sell the
militias short. A major flare-up in Cleveland, which everyone assumes
to have been pacified over a year ago, could have national
consequences. If there’s another Mistake-on-the-Lake, you don’t
want the press to blame it on an intelligence failure,” he said,
looking at Bednarski.
The chief shrugged, but
then unfolded his arms and tilted forward in his chair.
“Okay, so what do you
want from me? I’ve already got the entire downtown perimeter wired
and the Guard and the Cleveland police have deployed as many men as
they can spare around the business district.”
“We need more
overhead imagery and signals intelligence to help us determine when
and where the militias will strike. Can’t you order up some drones
to cover the Flats and the western bridges?” Linder proposed.
Bednarski shook his
head.
“Every serviceable
drone in the inventory has been shipped to the Pacific Command to
keep tabs on the Chinese. But since the two of you feel so strongly
that the rebels are planning a move downtown,” Bednarski continued,
“I’m going to send you on a recon assignment while I see what
else can be done. This morning I received a report of militiamen
attempting to infiltrate downtown through the Flats from Ohio City. I
want you to go down there and tell me if this could be the leading
edge of that large-scale assault you’re predicting.”
As if to confirm the
order, a pair of mortar shells exploded between the DSS office and
the tarmac like a loud “Amen.”
* * *
Within the hour,
Linder and Denniston had requisitioned an armored SUV from the DSS
motor pool and were driving northeast on I-71 into the city. Traffic
was sparse and they made good time until they reached the last exit
before downtown, where police cars with flashing blue lights diverted
traffic off the freeway and a mobile electronic detour sign directed
drivers to follow West Fifth Street back to I-490 East.
Denniston rolled down
the passenger window and called out to the nearest policeman.
“How do we get
downtown from here?”
“You don’t,” the
officer replied. “Follow the signs to I-490 and proceed east.” He
turned to leave.
“We’re law
enforcement,” Denniston pressed, flashing his DSS badge. “Now,
what’s the best way in?”
“There isn’t one,”
the patrolman persisted. “We’ve got fighting at the Superior
Avenue Bridge. Mobile units have been dispatched to block all major
roads and bridges. No exceptions without orders from the
Commissioner.”
“Okay, then. How
about the Flats?” Linder asked.
“That might be a
possibility,” the officer conceded.
“I’m all ears,”
said Denniston.
“All right, then,
don’t tell anyone I said this, but if you want to try it, go back
one exit, take Willey Avenue to West Two-Bits and take Two-Bits all
the way north to Superior Avenue. The Superior Bridge is blocked,
like I said, but one of the smaller bridges in the Flats might still
be clear.”
With a screech of
skidding tires, Linder steered the SUV onto to the southbound onramp
and followed the officer’s directions. Just short of reaching
Superior Avenue, Linder made a sharp turn onto a side road leading
down a steep hill onto the low-lying mud flats along the winding
Cuyahoga River where the city’s original settlers had first landed
in the early 1800s.
For much of the
twentieth century, the Flats were Cleveland’s industrial
powerhouse, famous throughout the nation for John D. Rockefeller’s
Standard Oil refineries and the steel mills of U.S. Steel, Republic
Steel, and Jones & Laughlin; and then became notorious for the
pollution that culminated in the Cuyahoga River catching fire in
1969.
Despite a short-lived
revival as an entertainment district in the 1980s and again the early
twenty-first century, the city’s declining economy, shrinking
population, aging demographics, and rising crime rate brought the
Flats back gradually toward a state of nature. As Linder and
Denniston drove past the crumbling hulks of deserted warehouses,
factories, and saloons, the only signs of human habitation were an
occasional squatter’s hut or an old cabin cruiser tied up along the
Cuyahoga for use as a houseboat.
Navigating largely from
memory and intuition, Linder followed Riverbed Street north along the
winding waterway, passing under the majestic concrete arches of the
century-old Superior Avenue Bridge, while both men scanned the river
for a way across. At last, Linder spotted a low-level bridge and
turned toward it.
But no sooner had the
SUV reached the bridgehead than a delivery truck pulled out to block
its path, and four men wearing ski masks emerged from cover, their
assault rifles aimed at Linder and Denniston.
“Ditch your DSS badge
fast and don’t open your mouth,” Linder directed. “I’ll
handle this.”
Linder took his right
hand off the steering wheel and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his
shirt to expose a thin gold chain and pendant before bringing the
sedan slowly to a halt.
One of the four gunmen
slung his rifle across his waist and approached the driver’s
window, covered by another gunman standing a few steps behind him.
The second two gunmen did likewise on the passenger’s side.
Linder lowered his
window and held his driver’s license out for inspection. Apart from
his ski mask, the gunman was dressed in jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, a
green camouflage field jacket, and battered work boots.
“Where are you fellas
going?” the gunman asked casually. He held a hand out for Linder’s
driver’s license and gave it a close look.
“I heard they posted
some new job openings down at City Hall,” Linder offered
innocently. “Me and my buddy were looking to get in there quick and
put in our applications. Any problem with that?” Linder replied in
a strong Cleveland accent.
“Not a good day for
it,” the militiaman replied before noticing Linder fingering the
gold pendant at his neck.
“Nice piece you got
there. Mind if I see it?” he asked.
“No prob,” Linder
replied, confident that the gunman would identify the informal
militia emblem. The medal was about the size and weight of a dime,
oval in shape, and bore the image of St. Christopher carrying baby
Jesus across the water. Embossed around the rim was the phrase,
“Behold St. Christopher and go thy way in safety.” Linder held it
in the palm of his hand for the gunman to inspect.
“Very nice work,”
the militiaman repeated as he fingered the pendant. “So what’s
your outfit?” he asked, looking Linder in the eye.
“The Rocky River.
Under Major Matt Donohue,” Linder replied evenly. “I’ve got
orders to make a pickup from downtown and take it back out to the
Major.”
“All right,” the
gunman replied, taking a step back from the SUV and putting a hand on
his holstered pistol. “Tell me the password.”
“They sent me out
without it,” Linder replied with upturned palms. “But yesterday
the challenge was Preakness and the parole was Big Brown, if that
helps,” he added with an obliging smile.
“It’s okay, he’s
one of us,” the militiaman called out in a loud voice to his
partners. “Good to see you, dude,” he addressed Linder with a
palpable sense of relief. “How can I help you?”
“Tell me: is it safe
to go downtown this way?”
“Probably, but you’d
better hurry. Things are heating up around here faster than anyone
expected. Our scanner shows that the feds have gone on alert.”
“Any suggestions of
how to get from here to City Hall?” Linder inquired.
“Sure thing,” the
militiaman offered, “If I were you, I’d follow this here road
till the signs say you’re on Canal Street, then hang a louie onto
Old River Road and keep moving north till you hit the warehouse
district. At Lakeside, turn right and you’re there.”
“Thanks, buddy,”
Linder answered as the gunman handed back his pendant. “One more
favor: do you mind giving me today’s challenge and parole? Like I
said, they sent me out without it.”
“You got it: today’s
challenge is England and the parole is Stonehenge. You shouldn’t
run into any of our boys from here on in, but you’ll likely need
the parole on the way back, especially if things keep heating up.
Good luck, fellas.”
Linder waited for the
truck to withdraw from the road before he drove across the bridge and
followed directions into the warehouse district.
“Okay, Neil, now it’s
your turn,” Linder informed his companion as they wove their way
through block after block of gutted storefronts over a shimmering sea
of broken glass before turning east at Lakeside Avenue toward the
city center. “This is government territory. I didn’t bring my DSS
badge, so if we get stopped, you’ll have to speak for both of us,
okay?”
Out of the corner of
his eye, Linder could see that Denniston had gone pale and droplets
of sweat covered his forehead despite the cool air.
“Is that okay?”
Linder repeated.
“Yeah, right,”
Denniston replied uneasily. “But are you sure you know where you’re
going? It seems awfully quiet around here for a weekday morning.
Where the hell are all the people?”
Without speaking,
Linder lowered all four car windows at once. The pops of distant
gunfire could be heard above the sounds of the moving vehicle.
“I think we’re in
the right place,” Linder observed. “Let’s get closer in.”
And without waiting for
a response, he turned the car toward the source of the gunfire,
letting his training and experience override his fears. As the
crackle grew louder and more distinct, a smile spread across Linder’s
lips. At that moment, he felt a heightened sense of focus and
awareness, a satisfying sense of living directly in the now, while
Denniston appeared to regard him with an irritation bordering on
resentment.
Linder turned the car
radio to a news station and within moments heard an emergency
bulletin reporting heavy exchanges of automatic weapons fire near
East Ninth Street and Euclid Avenue, in the heart of Cleveland’s
commercial district. They were closing in on that intersection now.
Linder turned onto East Sixth and parked just south of the vacant
Civic Center.
“This is where we
start earning our pay,” Linder noted wryly as he locked the car and
set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the gunfire without
waiting for Denniston to follow.
After traveling a
little more than a block, Linder spotted a pair of pickup trucks
ahead with armed men in civilian work clothes riding in back. Another
pair of trucks followed. All four discharged their passengers at the
corner of East Sixth and Rockwell, while several more trucks could be
seen crossing East Sixth, headed east on Superior.
“Where could they be
going?” Denniston asked breathlessly, flattening himself against
the wall just behind Linder. “Is there a target in that block?”
“Holy shit,” Linder
muttered when he thought of the answer. “We were right—they must
be going for the Federal Reserve.” He turned to Denniston with a
look of triumph. “It’s a wrap—I’d say we have what we came
for. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Roger that, dude,”
Denniston agreed, following Linder back toward the parked SUV.
But before they reached
it, Linder ducked inside a doorway of an office building and entered
the lobby. The reception desk was empty and the elevators were open
but unlit. Linder tested the door to the staircase and found it
unlocked.
“Come on, let’s try
something different,” he said, and climbed the stairs at a run, two
steps at a time. As they climbed, Linder could see that, if they
could reach the upper floors, the stairwell windows might provide a
view across Rockwell at just the right angle to gain a view of the
militiamen converging on the Fed. At the eighth floor, out of breath
and with legs aching from the climb, they gained the view Linder had
hoped for.
By now, black smoke
billowed from the ground floor of the Federal Reserve and a pitched
gun battle ranged along Rockwell Avenue as the militiamen stormed the
building. The booming of explosions and the staccato fire of
automatic rifles poured into the stairwell the moment Linder popped
open a window.
“Ah, vindication is
sweet,” Denniston remarked with a triumphant smile when he gazed on
the scene below. “Bednarski is going to have a cow when he hears
about this.”
“More like an
elephant,” Linder added. “I hope we live long enough to see the
look on his face.”
The two men wasted no
time in descending the stairs and retreating to their parked SUV,
which had already taken hits from several stray bullets, one
shattering a headlight and another ripping a gash in a front fender.
From the SUV, Denniston
radioed back their report over an encrypted voice channel. To their
disappointment, however, Bednarski had already learned of the attack
from the National Guard.