MINUS 037 AND COUNTING

“We’re in Derry,” she said.

The streets were black with people. They hung over roof ledges and sat on bal­conies and verandahs from which the summer furniture had been removed. They ate sandwiches and fried chicken from greasy buckets.

“Are there jetport signs?”

“Yes. I’m following them. They’ll just close the gates.”

“I’ll just threaten to kill you again if they do.”

“Are you going to skyjack a plane?”

“I’m going to try.”

“You can’t.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

They made a right, then a left. Bullhorns exhorted the crowd monotonously to move back, to disperse.

“Is she really your wife? That woman in the pictures?”

“Yes. Her name is Sheila. Our baby, Cathy, is a year and a half old. She had the flu. Maybe she’s better now. That’s how I got into this.”

A helicopter buzzed them, leaving a huge arachnid shadow on the road ahead. A grossly amplified voice exhorted Richards to let the woman go. When it was gone and they could speak again, she said:

“Your wife looks like a little tramp. She could take better care of herself.”

“The picture was doctored,” Richards said tonelessly.

“They would do that?”

“They would do that.”

“The jetport. We’re coming up to it.”

“Are the gates shut?”

“I can’t see . . . wait . . . open but blocked. A tank. It’s pointing its shooter at us.”

“Drive to within thirty feet of it and stop.”

The car crawled slowly down the four‑lane access road between the parked po­lice cars, between the ceaseless scream and babble of the crowd. A sign loomed over them: VOIGT AIRFIELD. The woman could see an electrified cyclone fence which crossed a marshy, worthless sort of field on both sides of the road. Straight ahead was a combination information booth and check‑in point on a traffic island. Beyond that was the main gate, blocked by an A‑62 tank capable of firing one-­quarter‑megaton shells from its cannon. Farther on, a confusion of roads and park­ing lots, all tending toward the complex jet-line terminals that blocked the runways from view. A huge control tower bulked over everything like an H. G. Wells Mar­tian, the westering sun glaring off its polarized bank of windows and turning them to fire. Employees and passengers alike had crowded down to the nearest parking lot where they were being held back by more police. There was a pulsing, heavy whine in their ears, and Amelia saw a steel‑gray Lockheed/G‑A Superbird rising into a flat, powerful climb from one of the runways behind the main buildings.

“RICHARDS!”

She jumped and looked at him, frightened. He waved his hand at her noncha­lantly. It’s all right, Ma. I’m only dying.

“YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED INSIDE,” the huge amplified voice admonished him. “LET THE WOMAN GO. STEP OUT.”

“What now?” she asked. “It’s a stand‑off. They’ll just wait until—”

“Let’s push them a little farther,” Richards said. “They’ll bluff along a little more. Lean out. Tell them I’m hurt and half‑crazy. Tell them I want to give up to the Airline Police.”

“You want to do what?”

“The Airline Police are neither state enforcement nor federal. They’ve been international ever since the UN treaty of 1995. There used to be a story that if you gave up to them, you’d get amnesty. Sort of like landing on Free Parking in Mo­nopoly. Full of shit, of course. They turn you over to the Hunters and the Hunters drag you out in back of the barn.”

She winced.

“But maybe they’ll think I believe it. Or that I’ve fooled myself into believing it. Go ahead and tell them.”

She leaned out and Richards tensed. If there was going to be an “unfortunate accident” which would remove Amelia from the picture, it would probably happen now. Her head and upper body were clearly and cleanly exposed to a thousand guns. One squeeze on one trigger and the entire farce would come to a quick end.

“Ben Richards wants to give up to the Airline Police!” she cried. “He’s shot in two places!” She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder and her voice broke, high and clear in the sudden silence the diminishing jet had left. “He’s been out of his mind half the time and God I’m so frightened . . . please . . . please ... PLEASE!”

The cameras were recording it all, sending it on a live feed that would be broad­cast all over North America and half the world in a matter of minutes. That was good. That was fine. Richards felt tension stiffen his limbs again and knew he was beginning to hope.

Silence for a moment; there was a conference going on behind the check‑point booth.

“Very good,” Richards said softly.

She looked at him. “Do you think it’s hard to sound frightened? We’re not in this together, whatever you think. I only want you to go away.”

Richards noticed for the first time how perfect her breasts were beneath the bloodstained black and green blouse. How perfect and how precious.

There was a sudden, grinding roar and she screamed aloud.

“It’s the tank,” he said. “It’s okay. Just the tank.”

“It’s moving,” she said. “They’re going to let us in.”

“RICHARDS! YOU WILL PROCEED TO LOT 16. AIRLINE POLICE WILL BE WAITING THERE TO TAKE YOU INTO CUSTODY!”

“All right,” he said thinly. “Drive on. When you get a half a mile inside the gate, stop.”

“You’re going to get me killed,” she said hopelessly. “All I need to do is use the bathroom and you’re going to get me killed.”

The air car lifted four inches and hummed smoothly forward. Richards crouched going through the gate, anticipating a possible ambush, but there was none. The smooth blacktop curved sedately toward the main buildings. A sign with a pointing arrow informed them that this was the way to Lots 16‑20.

Here the police were standing and kneeling behind yellow barricades.

Richards knew that at the slightest suspicious move, they would tear the air car apart.

“Now stop,” he said, and she did.

The reaction was instantaneous. “RICHARDS! MOVE IMMEDIATELY TO LOT 16!”

“Tell them that I want a bullhorn,” Richards said softly to her. “They are to leave one in the road twenty yards up. I want to talk to them.”

She cried his message, and then they waited. A moment later, a man in a blue uniform trotted out into the road and laid an electric bullhorn down. He stood there for a moment, perhaps savoring the realization that he was being seen by five hundred million people, and then withdrew to barricaded anonymity again.

“Go ahead,” he told her.

They crept up to the bullhorn, and when the driver’s side door was even with it, she opened the door and pulled it in. It was red and white. The letters G and A, embossed over a thunderbolt, were on the side. “Okay,” he said. “How far are we from the main building?” She squinted. “A quarter of a mile, I guess.” “How far are we from Lot 16?” “Half that.” “Good. That’s good. Yeah.” He realized he was compulsively biting his lips and tried to make himself stop. His head hurt; his entire body ached from adren­aline. “Keep driving. Go up to the entrance of Lot 16 and then stop.” “Then what?” He smiled tightly and unhappily. “That,” he said, “is going to be the site of Richards’s Last Stand.”

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 515