Stand Your Ground (16 page)

And there might still be somebody alive in there.

Chuck shoved his rifle into Ernie's hands and said, “Stay here.”

Then he vaulted over the railing along the front of the stands and dropped to the grass behind the home bench area. He ran toward the crash.

Pounding footsteps made him look back. Ernie lumbered after him. His hands were empty because he had given the rifle to somebody else.

“Damn it, Ernie—”

“I'm not lettin' you have all the fun, Chuck.”

There was no time to argue. Chuck sprinted up to the wreck and yelled over the crackle of flames, “Hey! Is anybody alive in there? Hey!”

A faint voice answered him. Chuck couldn't make out what the man said, but the response was enough to tell him that somebody had survived the crash. He grabbed the door handle and tried to wrench it open.

“Let me,” Ernie said as he shouldered Chuck aside.

Ernie was four inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. He could bench-press way more than his brother ever could. Chuck didn't argue. He just stepped back and let Ernie haul the door open with a tortured squealing of hinges.

Chuck got inside first. A quick look told him the pilot was dead. A large piece of windshield had cut his head halfway off, and he was covered with blood.

But several of the passengers were struggling to get out of their restraints. One man hung limply in his with his head at an odd angle on his shoulders. Chuck figured the crash had broken his neck.

The other five were alive, though. Injured, some of them, but alive.

Chuck had a folding KA-BAR knife in his pocket. He took it out and started using the razor-sharp blade to saw through the seat and shoulder belts holding the men in their positions.

The fire was spreading, and the suffocating heat from the flames filled the chopper.

The man Chuck was trying to free had a bloody mouth, like something had come loose during the crash and slapped him across the face. He said thickly, “Officer . . . you better get out of here . . . This thing . . . is liable to blow—”

“Not without you guys,” Chuck said.

This attempted rescue wasn't motivated solely by humanitarian reasons. Whoever these men were, they would swell the forces of what Chuck was already thinking of as the resistance.

He got the first man loose, helped him up, practically shoved him out the door into Ernie's arms.

“Get him away from here!” Chuck ordered. Ernie turned and trotted away with the man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

By the time Chuck got the next man loose, Ernie was back at the door. He had carried the first man to the sidelines and dropped him there. He took the second one and started off.

Another man had succeeded in freeing himself, and he was working on one of his companions. That just left one more, and Chuck cut him free.

They all clambered out except for Chuck and staggered away from the burning chopper. He knew he should go, too. He was already pushing his luck, because logic said the gas tank should have blown by now.

But he saw several rifles lying around and knew he and his allies would need all the weapons they could get. He grabbed the rifles and started pitching them out through the open doorway.

Ernie ran halfway out from the sidelines where everyone else was gathered by now and shouted, “Chuck, get outta there! Come on!”

Chuck saw what looked like an ammunition locker and grabbed it. Grunting under the weight, he carried it to the door and threw it out. That was the last of it, he thought. That was all he could do.

He felt the blast's concussion as it slammed into his back, but he never felt the searing wave of fire that engulfed him.

He was dead from a broken neck before the flames ever touched him.

The takeover of Fuego was virtually complete by one o'clock in the afternoon, less than two hours after the first shots had been fired by Charles Cobb.

In that time, the death toll was already closing in on a thousand. Each of the five churches in Fuego had been transformed into a charnel house. The massacre in the hospital cafeteria added to the rivers of blood being spilled for the glory of Allah.

During their sweep through the town, the invaders had killed many more, ruthlessly cutting down any citizen who tried to put up a fight. Those who surrendered were rounded up and marched to the football stadium on the edge of town. The grandstand there was the only place large enough to hold all of the prisoners. They huddled there on the metal bleachers, terrified, under the watchful eyes, and the guns, of their captors.

Phillip Hamil stood under the scoreboard at one end of the field and surveyed the cowering infidels. Already his men were placing explosives under the stands. If anyone from outside tried to interfere with his operation, those worthless Americans would pay with their lives. Hamil intended to make sure everyone understood that, too.

The wreckage of a helicopter continued to burn in the middle of the football field, sending up a pall of black smoke. It was the second of two aircraft his men had shot down with surface-to-air missiles bought on the black market. The first had been blown to bits in midair. The pilot of this one had tried to save it but failed. Hamil saw one body that had been thrown clear lying on the scorched turf next to the wreck.

He was confident the others were still inside, burned to a crisp by the blaze.

The policemen who had escaped from the station were still unaccounted for, but Hamil wasn't worried about them. However many they were, they were as nothing, bits of chaff in the wind of Islamic vengeance.

No, there was no one left in Fuego who could stop him, Hamil thought with a smile as he turned to gaze toward the red cliffs in the distance to the west. From where he stood at this moment of triumph, he couldn't see the prison, but he knew it was there.

And Hell's Gate was where he was going next.

 

 

Colonel Mohammed Havas was in his quarters at the underground installation where he was posted. He had been relieved of duty for the rest of his shift because of the shock of the “heart attack” that had claimed the satellite technician.

Before anyone arrived after the call for help he made, Havas had used his considerable computer skills to erase anything in the surveillance that might serve as a warning and replaced it with innocuous footage. As far as the Department of Defense, the NSA, and Homeland Security were concerned, nothing unusual was happening in Fuego, Texas, today.

The world would know soon enough that that wasn't true. Today was the first real stroke of the Sword of Islam against the godless West in far too long.

The phone the colonel used to make his call was one of the most secure in the world. The only phone more secure was the one he was calling. He listened to it ring on the other end, in a house on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington.

A voice familiar to Havas answered. If he hadn't recognized the voice, he would have broken the connection without saying anything, taken out his pistol, and put a bullet through his brain.

But as it was, he said simply, “The first part is complete. Judgment has begun.”

The sally port leading to the maximum security wing of the Baldwin Correctional Facility was all steel and bulletproof glass reinforced with thick wire mesh inside it.

A narrow, concrete-walled corridor led to the entrance, which could be hermetically sealed like a watertight door between compartments on a ship.

Beyond that first door, which had a square window of bulletproof glass set into it, was a small reception area manned by four heavily armed corrections officers. There was an intercom so someone outside the sally port could communicate with the guards.

To get into the cell block itself, visitors had to pass through the first door, go past the guards, through a second, equally impregnable door, then a maintenance area and kitchen, and finally into the long, double-level cell block.

At the far end of the cell block, a door opened into a small exercise yard that from the outside looked like a concrete cube with several skylights set into it. When the inmates were allowed into the exercise yard, they could see the sun, but they wouldn't feel the touch of the breeze on their skin for the duration of their stay in Hell's Gate.

George Baldwin explained all this to Alexis Devereaux, albeit in not quite so poetic terms, while Riley Nichols filmed the exchange and Travis Jessup interjected an occasional comment or question so he'd be sure to get at least a little screen time.

Alexis looked more and more outraged as Baldwin spoke. When he paused, she said, “This is shameful. Human beings shouldn't be treated like this.”

Watching from down the corridor, Stark wasn't sure the terrorists ought to be considered human beings. They were mad-dog killers whose only goal in life was to destroy his country and wipe out his way of life. Getting three meals a day, a bunk to sleep in, and medical care was about all they deserved.

More than they deserved, really, but despite all the America-bashers both at home and abroad, the liberal blame-America-first crowd, Stark liked to believe that the nation still had a core of goodness.

“You have a right to your opinion, Ms. Devereaux,” Baldwin said, “but I disagree. These inmates are being treated very similarly to the previous occupants of the maximum security wing. They're not being discriminated against in any way, other than the fact that some of our security procedures are slightly different. And to be honest with you, that's as much for their protection as anything else. You heard what Mr. Carbona said. Many of the inmates would like nothing better than the chance to strike back against these terrorists.”

“Alleged terrorists,” Jessup put in.

“Not my call,” Baldwin said. “I just keep 'em locked up. The courts will decide what they did or didn't do.”

Alexis said, “Do you know why those prisoners want to harm the Muslim inmates?”

“Gee, I don't know,” Baldwin said dryly. “Because they're Americans?”

“That's exactly right.”

Baldwin looked a little surprised. He said, “It is?”

“Yes. And all too many Americans are still racist, xenophobic bigots.”

Stark couldn't resist. He said, “We cling to our guns and our religion, too. Because those are rights the Constitution guarantees us.” He paused. “You can look it up.”

Riley had swung the camera around to catch him when he started talking. Now, as both Alexis and Jessup glared at her, she turned back to them.

“Warden Baldwin, I demand to be allowed into the maximum security wing so I can see for myself the conditions under which these political prisoners are living,” Alexis said.

“And I repeat what I said earlier, that's not going to happen. No civilian personnel are allowed beyond this sally port.”

“What about when attorneys representing the inmates need to talk to them?”

“We make an exception for that. We have a special room where they can meet.”

“It's probably bugged and has surveillance cameras in it, too,” Alexis said.

“It's not bugged, but there
are
cameras. Believe me, those lawyers want us to be able to keep an eye on them while they're talking to their clients, in case there's any trouble. We also allow inspectors from the state bureau of prisons and from the Justice Department. In fact, I went over everything about this setup with representatives from the Attorney General's office before the prisoners were transferred here, and they signed off on our plans. You can check with Washington if you don't believe me.”

Alexis didn't have anything to say to that. Before she could think of another question intended to embarrass or annoy Baldwin, a burly, brown-haired man approached quickly along the corridor and said, “Excuse me, Warden, I need to talk to you for a minute.”

“All right, Captain Frazier,” Baldwin said. He nodded to Alexis. “I'll be right back, Ms. Devereaux.”

Baldwin and Frazier withdrew along the corridor until they could talk in low voices without being overheard. Stark watched them with interest. He had heard an undercurrent of worry in the guard captain's voice, and a concerned frown appeared on Baldwin's face as he listened to what Frazier had to say.

Stark wondered what was going on.

After a few moments, Baldwin turned to catch Stark's eye and inclined his head in an indication that Stark should join them. Stark did so, aware that the other visitors seemed very curious about this development, whatever it was.

“John Howard, this is Bert Frazier,” Baldwin said. “Bert, my old friend John Howard Stark. He's had some experience with trouble.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bert,” Stark said with a nod. “Is that what we've got, George? Trouble?”

“Something's happened in Fuego. Some of my men spotted smoke coming from the town, too much smoke to be harmless.”

Stark frowned and said, “I told you it looked like a bunch of protesters were showing up. You think maybe there was a protest that turned into a riot? That crazy bunch could've set some cars or buildings on fire.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't put anything past them, either. But here's the really worrisome thing. One of the men at the gate thought he heard some explosions. And he swears he saw one occur in midair.”

“How reliable is this fella?” Stark asked.

Frazier answered that. He said, “Reliable enough that I'd bet my life on him.
Something
is happening in town, and I don't like it. My wife is there, and my kid's in the hospital.”

“Yeah, I saw him get hurt in the game the other night,” Stark said. “I hope he's doing okay.”

“I'm sure he is. But I'm worried about my wife and about what it might mean for the facility out here.”

“There's only one road to the place,” Baldwin said as he rasped his fingertips over his chin. “And it runs through Fuego.”

“If you're thinking what I'm thinking, boss, I'd better go check it out.”

Baldwin nodded curtly.

“You go ahead, Bert. Take a man with you. Check on Lois while you're there. And let me know right away what you find out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Frazier turned and hurried away.

“What was that about?” Alexis wanted to know when Stark and Baldwin turned back to the little group.

“Nothing I can discuss right now,” Baldwin said, “but it isn't anything for you to be concerned about, Ms. Devereaux.”

“I'm concerned about everything that goes on here when it involves the mistreatment of prisoners placed in your care.”

“Nobody has been mistreated,” Baldwin said with what Stark thought was remarkable patience. “There haven't been any incidents since the new inmates have been here, and there won't be. I won't allow any.”

“But you won't allow me to go in there and ask those men if you're telling the truth.”

“That's right, I won't.”

“Then how will anyone know if you're lying? How will America know?”

“America will just have to take my word for it, at least for the time being,” Baldwin said. “Now, Ms. Devereaux, I'm afraid that's all the time I have for you today.”

She stared at him as if she couldn't believe what he had just said.

“You're kicking us out?” she said.

“No, I'm telling you that other matters have come to my attention and I need to deal with them.” Baldwin gave her an obviously forced smile. “Running an institution like this is complex and requires a lot of time. So if you'll come with me I'll escort you back to the gate—”

Travis Jessup had started talking into his microphone in a low voice, doing a wrap-up for the broadcast, when Alexis interrupted both him and Baldwin by declaring, “I'm not going anywhere. Not until I get what I came for.”

“Which is?” Baldwin asked tightly.

“I want to talk to at least one of those men in there,” she said as she gestured toward the sally port and the maximum security wing beyond it. “If you won't let me in there, you can bring one of them out here.”

“Security considerations—”

“Surely you're not afraid of what
one man
might be able to do,” Alexis interrupted in a scathing tone. “You can put him in chains, surround him with guards, whatever you want to do. But I'm going to talk to him, or I'm not leaving here.”

“I can have you removed from the grounds.”

“If you do, all of America will see it on TV tonight.”

Stark felt sorry for his old friend. George Baldwin was a tough, well-organized administrator, but he wasn't used to dealing with situations like this. Handling the media required a person who was skilled in public relations, and that wasn't Baldwin's strong suit.

Stark sympathized because it wasn't his strong suit, either. He missed the days when straight talk still meant something in this country.

“If I allow this—”

“You're not going to stick us in some grim little room where the prisoner will be intimidated, either,” Alexis said. “I know. I want to interview one of the prisoners in the library. There were some comfortable chairs in there.”

“You said I could put the inmate in chains and surround him with guards,” Baldwin reminded her.

“You can, but that's no reason we can't sit down together comfortably and have a discussion.”

Stark could practically see the wheels turning in Baldwin's brain. The warden was sifting through everything and weighing it, trying to decide what the best and quickest way would be to get Alexis Devereaux out of his hair.

Obviously it would be to cooperate with her, and Alexis had to know that.

“All right,” Baldwin said. “We'll go back to the library, and I'll have one of the new inmates brought there. As for the meeting itself, you'll follow my instructions to the letter, do you understand?”

Alexis smiled and said, “Of course. I don't want to be unreasonable.”

Stark could tell it cost Baldwin considerable effort not to curse at that comment, or guffaw with derisive laughter.

“Is there any particular prisoner you want to talk to?”

“How could there be? The government has never released their names. The public doesn't know who they are.”

“I'll just pick somebody, then.”

“That's fine. And once he's assured me that he and his companions have been treated fairly and with respect, I'll be glad to leave.”

“Not as glad—Ah, never mind,” Baldwin said. “Let's go.”