Air Force One, Part Three (1) Where were you? At some point he realizes that he’s been looking out of the window for quite a while without thinking about anything. Also that he’s in his bed, lying on top of the covers, in all of his clothes right down to his boots, without being able to remember how he got there. How many people had to help him? He only hopes he didn’t struggle with them or hurt anybody or anything like that. When he was still sharing this bed with his wife, he would be careful to put the blinds on the big windows down every night. It was for some sense of security rather than privacy, since nobody could possibly see in unless they felt like taking a quarter-mile hike to the high ground. Now, he realizes, he goes to bed drunk pretty much every night. He can’t remember when the last time was that he so much as thought about closing the damned blinds. Well. At least this way the big windows afford a terrific view of the clouds. Half an hour ago it would have been pitch dark. Now there’s light, but just enough to make out that the sky is burdened by a heavy overcast — the kind that’s made out of dozens of clouds that look like they ought to be the undersides of some kind of vast, blurred ships. Maybe they’re carrying rain for somebody. Or snow, soon. Or then again maybe they’re not worried about any variety of cloud-cargo. You can afford to deadhead east when the wind is carrying you for free. Riding a highway in the sky, far away from sorrow, and fear, and the smell of blood in wet grass. We’re from anywhere, but tomorrow we’ll be in Nova Scotia. Then there is the creak of a footstep on the floorboards, and Bob Hewitt comes in seeming upset. This gets the innkeeper almost — but not quite — interested in his immediate surroundings. “Mick, I’m sorry,” the young man says. That interests him enough to actually turn his head again and look at the boy. And when a man in a suit walks in behind Bob, that’s even more interesting. Enough to get him to grudgingly sit up on the edge of the bed and face the two of them. He hasn’t seen a suit in ten years. At his side, the man in the suit is carrying a very serious-looking handgun. “They just showed up everywhere at once,” Bob says. “Nobody heard anything until it was too late.” So there is more than one of these serious-looking men with serious-looking guns. They just walked in, and nobody heard them coming. There were no dogs — Before he knows what he’s doing, Mick is out of the bed and launching himself at the man in the suit. The program in his head is something like: get there before he raises the gun; grab it with the left hand as he brings it up; right elbow-punch to the throat; take the weapon away; kill him with it. Instead, the man moves in the same instant as Mick. He moves as though they were connected, as though the same force that propels the innkeeper out of the bed and toward him causes the suited man to sidestep and rotate just far enough, and with no more than an eighth of an inch to spare. The innkeeper, moving faster, can’t redirect himself as quickly as his target can spin out of his way. His momentum carries him through empty air. The man in the suit clips him in the back of the head with the gun butt. He uses exactly enough force to stun the innkeeper for a second or two, but not so much that he’s knocked out or seriously injured. Before he regains control of himself, the innkeeper’s momentum carries him across the remaining distance between him and the wall. His forehead bounces off the rough paneling, and he somehow ends up seated on the floor with his back against the wall, taking in large breaths of air. “I’ll kill you,” he says between breaths. “You fucker. You killed my dogs.” The man in the suit gestures toward the door with his weapon. His shirt is still neatly tucked in. Everyone’s there, standing in a row at the parking lot’s edge. There are five men with guns altogether, including the one that was apparently sent in to collect Mick last of all. The other four have spaced themselves around their captives expertly. No one can make a break for the front door or the possible shelter of the trucks without being immediately targeted by at least two of the men. And everyone knows instinctively that none of the men in suits will need more than one shot to drop any target they wish. And between the five of them, they have more bullets than the Wolverine has people. Each one of the five is flawless. Perfectly clothed in equally conservative but not identical suits that might have been tailored the night before; their shoes are shined, and they are all clean-shaven. What the hell, Mick thinks, did they walk down the highway like that? By no stretch of the imagination can these men be a gang’s warriors. Or rather, that’s exactly what they are — but the gang that they belong to is the biggest and baddest one in the land. As incredible as it seems, Mick knows without a doubt that these men are Feds. He sees Anne, and she’s looking at him. He looks back at her for a moment, then drops his gaze to the cracked blacktop in front of his feet. There is nothing to done. As Mick and Bob Hewitt’s escort shows them to their place in the full-Wolverine lineup, the one of the five who is standing most nearly in front of everyone begins to talk. “Last night,” he says in a clear voice, “many of you witnessed the close approach of a very unusual aircraft. Its identity — is probably obvious to us all. So I hope you will understand the necessity of this intrusion. As a matter of the most vital national security, we cannot allow any hint of the aircraft’s existence, its condition, or its location to spread beyond those few of you here for at least the next several days. “We will have to ask each of you to temporarily surrender the keys to your trucks. We must disable any communications devices you have inside the trucks, as well as the vehicles themselves. Your cooperation in this matter will allow us to do our job without permanently damaging your property.” The truckers stir angrily at this, several of them grumbling openly. Mick speaks up. “Nobody at the Wolverine,” he says loudly, “has ever cooperated with thugs, and nobody ever will.” The Fed looks at the new heckler, narrowing his eyes but the Innkeeper continues before the man can speak. “Now maybe you can kill every one of us here,” he says, “and maybe you can’t. But sticking a gun in my face is not a way to get my cooperation, and I think the same goes for every man here.” The men around Mick mutter more enthusiastically now, and one or two utter experimental curses in his support. The Fed looks at him a few seconds longer, head tilted slightly as if listening to an archaic language. He holds his hands out and downward in a gesture that would probably be placating if it weren’t for the gun. “We did not kill your dogs,” he says quietly, looking directly at the innkeeper. Then he raises his voice to address the group again. “We are legal representatives of the United States Government,” he says loudly. “The aircraft that all of you witnessed last night falls within our jurisdiction. We have the authority to take any actions that we believe to be necessary in this matter. We have no wish to use force against your property or your persons, but we will do so if we must. Please cooperate with us in this matter briefly, and we will restore your property to you and be on our way within a day or two.” “Oh! The United States Government!” one trucker speaks up. “Well god damn! Maybe I should curtsy. Gee whiz, officer, did I exceed the fuckin’ speed limit? Am I late filing my tax forms for ten years ago? I’ll tell you what mister — to me you boys look like nothin’ but a bunch of faggots in funny suits. I’m thinkin’ maybe you oughta put that gun away before somebody helps you shove it up your federal ass.” Some of the men laugh while others speak up angrily in agreement. Although Mick feels convinced that these five agents could gun down every one of his customers without getting their jackets wrinkled, he is equally certain that they do not know how to judge the level of anger the truckers feel toward them. And as numb as he may feel after everything that’s happened, he is still the master of the Wolverine. He still prefers not to see his customers butchered wholesale in his parking lot. “You know,” he talks over the men again, “back when there actually was a ‘United States Government’, I seem to remember that there were also some little things like federal magistrates and warrants and court orders that all had to get involved before people like you could come onto a man’s land with guns drawn. You guys got the costumes down pretty good — did you remember to bring the props, too?” “I am sure that you know very well,” the man responds, “that there is no functioning United States court within hundreds of miles of here. Perhaps none remain anywhere. How shall we produce the documents that would satisfy you?” “Well, maybe you can’t!” the innkeeper retorts. “If I’m not mistaken you just admitted that the judiciary branch of the United States Government no longer exists. We all know that there’s no more legislature. And unless you think that the President’s been up there partying with the Joint Chiefs of Staff on that damned airplane for the last ten years, we all know that there’s no more executive branch either. “Now I think,” Mick continues, before the man can speak, “that if all three parts of the United States Government no longer exist, that pretty much means that the United States Government no longer exists. But you know what? That doesn’t mean that everybody can just do whatever the hell they please. Because America is still here. America has always been here and America is always going to be here because you can’t kill it by dropping nukes on a few cities full of assholes. And in America we respect each other’s lives and property.” He’s not aware of the truckers around him anymore, nor the other agents: only of this one suited man, and of fury. The world that this suited man represents is the one that he himself once inhabited: a world in which the ideal of freedom had been long since disappeared. It had been replaced in slow, insensible degrees with the tyranny of the majority, under which a man’s life could finally be thirty-seven percent owned by his peers merely because they voted that it should be so in their enslavement of each by all. On every day he spent in that world, Mick fervently wished to leave it. Eventually, his wish was granted. Isn’t it normally a genie that grants wishes? You let them out of their bottle, and in exchange for their freedom they grant you your heart’s desire. The United States had been a genie, but of quite a different kind. It would keep you in a bottle, use you in any way it made up its mind to and maybe someday grant you your freedom when it was ready to, if you could pay the price. The price in Mick’s case was relatively modest: fifty years of life. “The source of your authority died long ago, sir,” he tells the agent. “Mine is still here. You are standing on it. Now, I want you and your men to put down your weapons and treat me and my guests with the respect that free men deserve. If you want our help, you may ask for it.” The man regards him silently while the low, heavy clouds fly a little further before the autumn wind. A chance gust, braving the regions nearer the earth, brushes the tops of the pines and sighs with the effort of bending them before it moves on. The suited man safes his weapon, and holsters the gun inside his jacket. “My authority,” he tells the innkeeper, “derives from my will to follow where my duty leads. You think very much of your freedom. Are you as familiar with duty? “My men and I are agents of the Secret Service,” he continues. “With or without a country, we remain what we are. Whatever you may think, the aircraft you saw is the last known location of the President of the United States. That means that, chance or no chance, and whether he is alive or dead — we are going there. “You resent our intrusion and our handling of you and your guests. I am sorry. But we will not permit any chance of our mission being compromised. “We lost him once,” the agent says. “That will not happen again. Please do not get in our way.” The silence that follows is broken when one trucker laughs. Turning, Mick is surprised to see only a few feet to his left the man who spoke up a couple of nights ago at dinner. The man who talked about Walker. “Man, you guys sure do know how to talk about it, don’t you?” the man says. “You’re gonna follow your duty? Are you gonna follow it forever, or are you gonna catch up to it sometime?” He grins, an expression strange to his face. “You know, it sure is easy to talk about duty. I know all about it, man. I did it! Hell yes! I did my duty to my country, just like you. And while I was up in Montreal one fine March, there were a whole bunch of real good-looking real serious guys just like you down here telling me what a damn fine thing it was to go off and fight for my country. “And I believed it!” he yells. “I trusted all you good gentlemen of the Goddamned United States Government to watch my back while I was up there, getting’ my ass kicked four ways from Sunday by the FC. “And you know what I got for doing my duty?” he asks quietly. “You know how well all the good, serious USG guys down here did their duty back to me?” He wags an index finger at the agent like a bearded professor making a point. “They let my Jenny and my two boys starve to death,” he says, smiling faintly. “Can you imagine that? I sure can. I sure have.” “Where were you then, man? You and all your good, serious talk about duty. Where the hell were you then?” The agent begins to speak, but the trucker stops him with an upraised hand. “Save it, man,” he says. “I’m just sayin’ — it’s awful easy to talk. And you guys,” he jabs a finger toward the man, “always seem to be comin’ up about a day late and a dollar short. Have you noticed that? You gotta work on it, man, cause I sure got a feeling, you know? I think you might just be playing in the big leagues this time around.” The trucker stands, smiling at the agent innocently. “And you know, you gotta quit worrying so much about keeping this party private. I called them last night, man. The folks you don’t want to meet? I got on the horn just about one minute after the plane showed up. I’m kinda surprised they ain’t here already.” The agent casts a quick glance toward a couple of his men, then looks back at the trucker. His mouth is open to speak, but he closes it again. Mick has the impression that it has been a very long time indeed since this suited man has found himself at a loss for words. The trucker grins hugely, his face transfigured by humor and joy. And, grinning, he turns his back to the agent. “He wanted me to do it,” the trucker says quietly to Mick, laying a hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder. “He’s always talked to me, ever since I saw him. And he’s happy with me now, man. I did it. This is the last thing he wanted.” It isn’t easy for Mick to concentrate on what the long-haul trucker is saying, because the agent is simultaneously yelling at the man. “Turn around! Step away from him and show me your hands!” During his argument with the agent, Mick stood still while many of the truckers moved a step or two to get a better view of both him and his debating partner. Now the two agents who were guarding the front corners of the group have to run a few steps to get an unobstructed view of the innkeeper and the man in front of him. They aren’t going to get there in time. Only the head agent has a clear view, but the long-haul man’s back is turned directly toward him. “Goodbye, man,” the trucker says to Mick, smiling, but with tears on his face. “You take care of yourself.” Quickly lowering his left hand to the center of Mick’s chest he shoves the innkeeper back a couple of steps while plunging his right hand inside his jacket as though to draw a weapon. “Freeze!” the chief agent yells, his own weapon already pointed. But he can’t see what’s happening either. He would have to run sideways to get to a spot where he might have a clear view, and he, like his colleagues, would not quite get there in time. By some miracle of physical calculus, the long haul man has chosen his place and time so perfectly that, for all their skill, the five agents have no way of seeing what he is doing — and only one way of stopping him. Only Mick is placed to see that, as the trucker pulls his hand from his army jacket, it comes out empty. His thumb and forefinger are held out, comically, in a child’s parody of a pistol. Like boys playing army on an autumn day. “Drop your weapon!” the agent yells, crouching after taking two quick steps to his left. The long-haul man’s pistol of the imagination extends fatally toward his host’s chest. Understanding in the last instant, Mick just has time to open his mouth and halfway raise his own hand. But even as he moves, he realizes how much it must look like he’s trying to defend himself from a weapon. And wonders if, somehow, even that was part of the script. The agent’s shot penetrates the trucker’s back an inch to the left of his heart and passes through his chest, just missing his ribs and sternum. It emerges on a trajectory that takes it precisely through the center of his right wrist, flinging his arm aside before he could have pulled his non-existent trigger. For the second time in six hours, Mick smells blood: this time as it spatters across his shirt. But it occurs to him, inanely, that he should have felt more than the trucker’s blood striking him. The agent should have been using a fragmentary round. That’s what people shoot if they’re serious about stopping their target. A round like that would have blown the whole front of his target’s chest off and maybe gotten a good piece of whoever happened to be standing in front of him as well. The round used by the Secret Service agent must have been a “standard” bullet, like nobody in his right mind has used for years. Of course, if you happen to be able to put a round through a man’s chest so as to hit his wrist, while it’s moving, and while you are being forced to infer its location from the position of his back and shoulder — and if, on top of that trick, you want to make sure that you don’t hit anything except your intended target — hey! Maybe a standard round is just the ticket. The trucker staggers forward a step, then manages to stop himself. He looks into the distance for a second or two, then goes over backward — dead before he hits the ground. Mick goes to his knees, and then sits back on his heels. He watches as the various agents move toward him, and the truckers move toward or away or both. When the chief agent sees that the trucker’s hand is empty he looks quickly around for the weapon. Realizing that there never was one, he looks wide-eyed at the innkeeper. Dang. Surprised twice in thirty seconds. That has probably never happened to him before. It is perfectly quiet for perhaps ten seconds. Then one of the other agents says “They are coming.” After a few heartbeats it occurs to Mick to wonder what the second agent is talking about. But then as he looks up at the man he hears it: far away above the treetops, the once-familiar sound of a helicopter. The chattering roar grows quickly, blurring into the sound of many separate machines approaching. He looks at the trucker’s body a couple steps in front of him on the old blacktop. Anne crouches down next to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him, touching him exactly where the long-haul man did. She is immediately running a hand over his blood-splashed shirt, checking for wounds. She stops, satisfied, but looking at her husband’s eyes worriedly. He is only looking at her hand: the palm and fingers red with blood. The wind moves the dead man’s long hair. It’s getting windier now, down here on the ground. The air is cooling off. Anne says something to him, and he looks at her. “This is getting to be a rough neighborhood,” he says, widening his eyes comically. He realizes that he’s shivering. “Do we resist?” he hears one of the other agents say to their chief. Mick wonders if he’s planning to shoot down helicopters with his pistol. Maybe he is. “No,” the man answers after a moment. “They were aware of us. They will already have destroyed our transportation. They see to it that we need them as much as they need us.”
Copyright © 2000 Michael Goulish |