Air Force One, Part Three (4)
It even seems appropriate somehow that, now that this man has finally come, he has come on a completely different and much greater errand. The arrest of one innkeeper will be the least sidelight of his mission. The world that Mick left long ago has not died, but has grown and is even now and before his eyes going on to its glorious future. At the same time the world that he ran to — perhaps it, too, will go on to greatness someday. But now it has abandoned him. The reward of his long strife is finally to be alone and forgotten — except for his sins. So! There’s not much point in trying to run again, since there’s no place left to run to. And, of course, there is the little detail of the hundred armed men in and around his place, and the remnants of his family and guests under their guard. And very oddly, something about this almost feels good. The innkeeper stands at the end of the long hall realizing that, finally, he is glad to have no choices left. He takes a step into the hall and sees light reflected off the polished wooden walls near the far end. Here he took more care in finishing the woodwork, since it was meant for guests. Now the rooms he walks past on either side are mostly locked, and the soldiers have taken the keys. A few doors are still open. An armed man steps out of one of them and nods him toward the hallway’s end. He cannot remember when he has been so afraid to walk toward a room, and his pace, which was not fast even at the hall’s entrance, slows still further. A few doors from the end, one odd detail nevertheless manages to penetrate his awareness. Something is wrong with the light that’s coming from the room at the hallway’s end. The color seems wrong. Is the man using some special, military lamp? Propane might explain it, but a propane lamp would make a hissing noise that he should be able to hear easily by now. Just before he reaches the doorway, he understands. Without any generator running, which also would be easily audible, the man is using an electric light. As Mick stops at the threshold and the man’s desk comes into view, his suspicion is confirmed. The Colonel closes a large book and looks up, but Mick sees only the beautiful little portable electric lamp, machined in solid-looking black metal with a heavy base and a long folding neck. It has been many years since he has seen an electric light inside his Inn. He has come to think of them as things that only exist in the form of headlights on trucks that are still lucky or prosperous enough to have one that works. “Well, Mr. Goulish,” the Colonel says, “you seem to have slept the day away. I hope you’re feeling better?” “Yes,” Mick breathes almost inaudibly. “Thank you.” The old man’s eyes seem oddly colored in this light. Looking into them, Mick again feels as though he is in the presence of infinite wisdom and patience. “Come in, please,” the Colonel says. “We have not properly met. My name is Tennen. Jim Tennen. I am very pleased to meet you.” They shake hands over the desk and the Colonel sits back down, motioning Mick to a chair facing him. They have no nametags on their uniforms any more, Mick realizes. There used to be little Velcro tags that you would press on over the left breast pocket. Maybe that has changed. “And thank you for coming,” the Colonel says. That actually gets the innkeeper to smile, if a little thinly. “Did I have a choice?” he asks. “Of course,” the older man replies. “Mr. Goulish—” “Mick,” the innkeeper says. “Mick,” the Colonel smiles, “I know we must seem like an overwhelming force, descending like this. I am very well aware that we have invaded your home and your business here, and I regret that aspect of our mission very much. “I can only hope that you understand why we must insist on absolute secrecy in this matter until our mission is accomplished. And I assure you that our only desire is indeed to accomplish that mission, and leave your home exactly as we found it. “I also hope,” the old officer continues, “that you can understand the importance of this mission and share my enthusiasm for it. In fact, I know that you can.” “Oh, you know that?” Mick asks. The Colonel leans back in his chair steepling his fingers in front of his chin, considering, then smiles. “You noticed my light when you came in,” he says. “Do you like it? Please take a look.” He pushes it toward the edge of the desk, and Mick leans forward to lift it. “Heavy,” he says. Shadows in the room dance crazily as he handles the device, examining its base. “I used to have some lights here,” he says absently. “We had some solar battery chargers. They quit taking a charge after a while. You can still get them if you try hard enough, but —.” He frowns at the small lamp’s massive black base. “This doesn’t open? There’s no place to — How do you charge it?” “It is not rechargeable,” the Colonel says. “We replace the bulbs when they burn out, but otherwise there is no way to service these lamps. When the power source fails you get a new one.” “Well what—” the innkeeper looks up, “do you power your desk lamps with plutonium? Is this thing half lead shielding?” “I am afraid,” the Colonel laughs, “that plutonium is still far too precious to be used in desk lamps “No,” he says, this is — something new. I should not say very much about the principle it works on. But it does not contain anything like what you would call a battery, or a fuel cell, or radioisotopes. “If you were to cut that base in half, so long as you missed the wires, the light would simply dim. Inside you would find nothing more than a solid piece of what might appear to be nothing more than —dark glass. Unless you happen to have an electron microscope to examine it with.” Mick looks down at the suddenly mysterious object in his hands. Glass? Silicon? Ridiculous images of micro-machined little — somethings — chase through his mind. With little tiny coppertop batteries, no doubt. Some Assembly Required. “How long does it last?” he asks, looking up again. “Unfortunately they vary quite a bit at this stage,” the Colonel sighs. “And unpredictably. But, so far, this one has lasted for three years.” Although it seems brilliant by the standards he has become accustomed to, Mick realizes that the bulb is probably no more than thirty watts. Even so, if it’s used for only a few hours a day — over three years? Mick tries, and fails, to imagine a hundred kilowatt hours of energy somehow stored up in a few pounds of glass. He returns the lamp carefully to the desk. “What I want you to understand,” the Colonel says, “is that progress has not stopped. There are still laboratories, concealed in safe places across the country. There are still authorities who direct their efforts. The way of life that made this a great nation has not died. Not quite yet. And it need not die, even now. That is what this mission is about. The old officer waits, watching the innkeeper consider his statement. “Colonel,” Mick says uncomfortably. It requires some effort to not call him “Sir”. “You know, the best way to get news now — actually I guess it’s the only way that I know — is having a place like this, and listening to the truckers gossip every night. It’s not a bad way, but — I guess it’s not much like double-clicking on CNN. “Do you remember,” he tries to smile, “how we used to know about every little thing? What did the stock market do in the last five minutes? What’s the latest lawsuit? Which movie star got arrested? You know, it was like living in a small town with three hundred million people in it. “Now—” he shrugs. “I guess it’s a lot bigger country. Bigger, emptier, and tougher. It’s getting hard for the men who stop here to carry a load as far as Minnesota. And I don’t think that I’ve met three guys in the last year who have been to the west coast. Ever. You know, it takes a week to just plan a trip like that now, and a month to get there if you’re lucky. “So, truckers’ gossip or no trucker’s gossip, everybody knows that there are lots of things that happen now that we never hear about. People just expect that now. “But still —” the innkeeper spreads his hands, “if there’s one thing these guys love to talk about, it is certainly the government. And the way they talk about it is generally — not very —” “Complimentary?” the Colonel asks. “That’s — right,” (sir, a voice in his head tries to add). “It is definitely not at all complimentary. “Some of them hate it as much as the enemies we had. And with some of them — I would say they hate it a lot more. You know, I guess they feel like — the people who were supposed to be governing this country — part of their job should have been to see what was coming, and make sure that it didn’t get too far out of hand. “They can understand that the enemy was out to get us — that’s what enemies do, right? But the people whom we trusted in the high places — I guess the men feel like they let us down, sir. And I guess I do too.” “Please believe me,” the Colonel tells him. “I understand that sentiment completely.” “Well,” the innkeeper continues, “that’s one thing. But the other thing is, whatever I’ve heard these men say about the government — for a good ten years now, it has always been absolutely in the past tense. Yet now, all of a sudden, I’ve got two federal agencies camped out on my lawn, and an overflight by the President’s airplane for good measure. It’s — a little hard to believe, sir.” The Colonel nods, regarding him seriously. “The continued existence of this aircraft,” he says, “which we presume to be Air Force One, has come as a shock to — everyone. Myself very much included. Why and how it has remained hidden for so long and why some twist of fate has chosen to suddenly reveal it now certainly confuses me as much as it does you. I am nevertheless determined to make the most of the opportunity that this chance represents. “I must admit,” the older man continues, “that I was also surprised by the arrival of Agent Page and his associates. I have been — aware of his activities in the past, but his agency, as you call it, and mine are of a completely different order. “For various reasons, it seems that on this particular occasion he and I will be forced to work together. But I have no more knowledge than you do of his goals in this matter. Please do not let his ham-fisted behavior color your opinion of my mission. You could say that the government that he and his group represent is quite — separate from mine. “And as for the actual status of the government which I serve — I can easily understand your doubts. The events of the past twenty years have certainly weakened us immeasurably. That much is evident to anyone still trying to make an honest living in what remains of our nation. In fact, I will not attempt to conceal from you the fact that the operation that you see around you here represents a very large part of our remaining strength. “And yet,” he leans forward striking the desktop with the fingertips of one hand, “and yet — all is not lost. I must convince you, above all people, of that.” “Is that so?” Mick asks. The Colonel leans back into his chair and considers the innkeeper for an unsettlingly long time. “Yes, it is so, Lieutenant,” he says finally, “and I expect you can even guess why.” Almost, Mick had let himself believe that the man would not know. That one man’s past would be far too trivial a subject to occupy the attention of people on such a lofty mission. Or perhaps that the last copies of the military databases which stored his name would have finally ceased to function. But if the Colonel knows his former rank — then the Colonel knows everything. He looks back at the older officer silently. “Am I under arrest?” he asks at last. “I will answer your question, Lieutenant,” the old man says, “but you must first answer mine.” The innkeeper looks at the Colonel and finds himself at the exact center of the older man’s attention. The man’s eyes could be almost any color, he thinks, depending on the situation. “Are you a murderer?” the old man asks. “Yes, sir,” the innkeeper says. “I am.” The Colonel nods. “My second question is — did you desert your post in the armed service of your country during wartime?” “Yes, sir. I did.” “Good,” the Colonel says, and thinks for a while before speaking again. Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled again with both index fingers pressed to his lips, the stark shadows from the eternal desk lamp make the old officer look like a bird of prey considering alternatives. “When you left, Lieutenant,” he says, “I stayed. I am sure you are familiar with the various courses that the War took, after your departure. Am I correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Of course. Then I am also sure that you will understand me when I say that I, also, am a murderer. Many thousands of times over. And, while I did not desert my post — would you say that I was particularly successful in the performance of my duty?” A shadow of bitterness touches the old man’s face. “Look around, Lieutenant,” he says, “at what remains of our nation. Then tell me how faithfully I have served it.” The old officer bows his head to massage gray eyebrows with one hand. “You did as you were forced to do. You defended what little you could, and abandoned what you must. I did the same. The Wars brought guilt enough to us all. And yet now, perhaps, fate has offered us all a way to make amends.” He looks up again, eyes flickering with his movement in the unchanging light. “Is our mission clear to you yet?” he asks. “Whatever strange chance it was that allowed the aircraft to survive, there is no chance at all that anyone alive remains aboard. They would certainly have found some way off in ten long years. Air Force One is derelict, piloting itself with the onboard computer system. “Once we have located the aircraft and determined its flight pattern, we should be able to intercept it with the helicopters. At the speed and altitude it seems to be holding, that should be possible. The greatest unknown is the ship’s self-defense system. Agent Page and his men know all the relevant passwords, and they will supply them to us on the condition that we take them along. “Unfortunately, passwords alone are not enough. With or without them, the ship will not allow uninvited guests to simply drop in — and the protocols and procedures for commanding the aircraft to accept new visitors were lost ten years ago, when NORAD was destroyed. “I am not here to arrest you, Lieutenant,” the Colonel tells him. “I need your help to board Air Force One.”
Copyright © 2000 Michael Goulish |