It was 3 o'clock in the morning by the time they skirted through the desert
on their bikes to the encampment in the hills overlooking the city. They
parked the van behind the last industrial building they found and hustled
across the vast asphalt parking lot that ended in a 10-foot-high chain-link
fence, then miles of desert. Their bikes were another mile from the edge of
the city and they ran most of the way.
Michelle lost her elderly garb, burying it in the sand. She wore snug workout
clothes over slender legs, a 23-inch waist, and full chest. The entire group
was taken aback by her shapely form. With her running shoes on, Michelle kept
pace with the double-timing team as they ducked tumbleweed, dodged prickly
cactus, and avoided the potholes of the desert. Sam was getting to know the
dark, somber terrain. From the edge of the mountain peaks to the moon, he
could trace the direction to the camouflaged bikes. Helicopters buzzed the
city looking for the escapees. If they had been on the freeway side of Vegas,
the pursuit would also contain several network vans sporting massive
spotlights followed by a barrage of police cruisers. To the east of town there
was limited access for the TV crews, so the open desert was guarded and
watched over by a detachment of military helicopters that buzzed around the
perimeter of the city. Their publicity cache involved in searching the depths
of the desert seemed hardly worth the expensive pursuit.
The police spotted the bullet-ridden van and were in the midst of a door-to-
door search, as the jogging team neared their bikes. Red mounted his
Shovelhead, Amber her Sportster, and Sam his trusty Panhead. Michelle got on
after Sam fired his bike and pulled herself close to his back. More than once,
their eyes sparkled together in the desert; occasionally their fingertips made
reassuring contact as they jogged in the frightening sand.
The group broke up and rode separate paths to the encampment. Anxious troops
and sleepy kids waited for them, and as the sound of their bikes intertwined
up the final road and merged at the gates, murmurs filled the air in
anticipation. The gates were manually pulled open and the four victorious
freedom fighters rode in unencumbered, dismounted, and strode into the mighty
steel hall where the majority of the citizens crowded to hear the news.
Sam, Red, Michelle, and Amber strolled into the dark rusting hall, fatigued
and filthy. They turned on two televisions: one to the local news, the other
to a tape monitor. Michelle pulled a Beta deck out of her satchel, hooked it
up to the monitor, and turned it on. The news reports from various locations
in the city included shots of paramedics loading Jimbo's body into the back of
an ambulance. The renegades in the desert were being accused of the assault
and various interviews with government officials termed the vicious attack
another reason why heightened enforcement was necessary to ward off such
attacks.
The crowd in the dark room went silent as they saw Jimbo's body being lifted
into the emergency vehicle. "Well, what was worth losing one of our people
for?" Deacon shouted above the din.
"Yeah, what's the deal," another hollered. And the rhetoric continued with
threats and pledges, questions and accusations. Deacon's words echoed around
the tin abode. Most prayed for their freedom to last. They were afraid of
Deacon and his band of ruffians, but more afraid of the ever-growing emerald
city government expanding at the center of the desert floor. To them it was
like living in a high-rise apartment house while reports of an eminent eight-
point earthquake were announced from the boob tube. They were scared to the
bone.
"Here's what I have," Michelle said, punching the play button on her portable
deck. The monitor flickered and glowed with the image of a large, luxurious
boardroom with the logo of the largest national network emblazoned in the rear
of the room. GBS, the most watched, most affluent network in the world, had
affiliates in every major city on the globe.
As the cable industry grew over the past 20 years, the terrestrial networks
lost their hold on the nation's general audience. Ruppert Murdoch bought up
cable networks around the world to enhance his Fox media hold. Disney bought
NBC. Dillar bought CBS and the war over the advertising dollar grew. Then the
Internet took over and the cable industry faltered. Niche markets grew,
advertising lost its grasp on the general audience, and the viewers could pick
what they wanted to view. GBS became the first network on the Web. With the
lack of censorship available on the World Wide Web, GBS was able to compete
with the National Enquirer and the Star. People could get the worst dirt the
quickest on the Web through GBS, and they ate it up.
The owner of GBS, and a multi-millionaire overnight, was Joseph Damaino, a
short, pudgy man who began his career in the television industry selling
advertising space. He sat at the head of the table, smoking a cigarette,
rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard and attempting to get comfortable in the
plush leather seat. He had a problem with people. He didn't like them, wished
they'd all go away. Several of his aids sat alongside him, and then an
entourage of military personnel entered the room. The meeting began with a
discussion of the military and news media getting along, discussion of rules
and who had the power to cross police lines, etc. Outright hostility blossomed
between the second line employees of both the military and the news. At one
point, an anchorwoman stood up, disgusted with a lieutenant's response, and
stomped out of the room. That's when Joseph slapped the table with the palm of
his hand, "People, people, please," he muttered anxiously. "May I have a word
with the general alone?"
General Platt, a large, stout-looking military figure nodded to his people
and they left the room. "Now, don't kill each other in the hallway," he said,
half joking, and re-lit his cigar.
"Listen, General," Mr. Damaino said impatiently, "You want your budgets and I
want my news. So far, this has been a productive partnership. You and I both
know what you're doing out there in the desert is nothing more than heavy-
handed crowd control, and perhaps it's working. I'm making money from the
coverage, you get your share, and your budgets get bumped in the name of
national security and public safety. But that wouldn't happen if I wasn't out
there glorifying your target practice in the desert. Now if you don't want us
to continue the coverage, we'll take our film crews downtown to the
underground crack houses and leave your troops to cool their heels in the sand
by themselves."
General Platt sat in his chair, flexing his broad shoulders and stiff neck
while spinning the cigar with a massive, gold, family crest ring that
glistened on his right ring finger. He was tan and tough-skinned. He had no
facial hair and the thinning crewcut on his head was tightly trimmed. The
silver oak leaves sparkled on his lapels as he pondered Damaino's words. The
short, fat man with wavy graying hair in the ill-fitting pin-striped suit
repulsed his strict disciplinary order, but their partnership was more
fruitful than he had ever imagined.
"What happened to my interview on 90 Minutes?" the general inquired, looking
for a bone to pick with the "Big D."
"You'll have your interview, and you'll come out smelling like a rose,
General," Damaino said, squirming in his seat. He also didn't like the
general. The uniform and all it stood for grated his entrepreneurial
sensibilities. "Just give my people respect and access, and you'll have your
day in the limelight. You can continue to cut people down in the desert and
look like heroes doing it. By the way, where are you getting the victims now,
since the legitimate ones seem to be drying up?"
"We've been sharing the profits with the chief of police in Los Angeles, and
he's more than happy to give us his troubling cases to deal with," Platt said,
standing up. "I'll pass the word about your news crews."
"Thank you, General," Joseph said standing, "I'll pass the word to my people.
Michelle turned off the tape. The silent crowd in the steel catacomb was
stunned. Suddenly in unison, the troubled family of outcasts burst out into
cheers. "There is a god," someone shouted.
"Let's celebrate," another voice cried out.
"Does it mean we'll be free?" another questioned.
As she turned off the monitor, murmurs passed throughout the room. Sam
stepped forward and said, "We will need to utilize this material fast, before
the entire army comes looking for us. But for now, let's get some sleep."
The crowd dispersed quickly and quietly. The team said good night and Amber
took Michelle to her crushed car apartment to make up another bed for her.
Sam made his way via candlelight through a narrow passageway to his abode,
which was stacked on a semi that had been turned on its side and used as a
garage for bikes. Sam said good night to Red, who had similar accommodations
at the other end of the compound. With cutting torches, Sam and Red had
created large holes in the sides of the corrugated steel containers and used
truck windshields for windows so they could maintain a vantage point on the
hillsides below. The containers were large, open spaces.
Sam had mustered a badly dented, pot-bellied stove and plumbed it. His bed
frame consisted of welded together rails with a hubcap headboard. He took off
his clothes, except for his tattered boxers and sat on the edge of the bed,
weary from the night's activities, and lit a candle. He poured a short shot of
Jack Daniel's in a tin cup, closed the lid on the fifth, and slipped it into
an aluminum locker bolted to the side of the steel box. That's when he heard
someone coming.
He leaned over the edge of the deck and spied Michelle tapping on the ladder
below. "Come on up," he said. "Would you like a whiskey?"
"Sure," she said, climbing the ladder.
Sam extended his hand to her as she reached the top and pulled her in.
"Nice," she commented, eyeing his humble surroundings. She turned and looked
out of the windshields over the vast desert below and the shimmering lights of
Las Vegas. He reopened his locker and poured her a shot of Jack. He saw her
standing at the edge of his bed, with her gentle fingertips touching the
5-inch shell casing bedpost. She was stunning in the candlelight of his
cavern. Her fine, shiny brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a
form-fitting, black skirt that accented her waist. It was cut low in the
front, revealing her full, succulent cleavage. Sam audibly gasped at her
overflowing sensual beauty.
He stammered, "Please, sit down." Offering her the drink, he didn't know
whether to plead or apologize. It had been years since he felt the pangs of
what was racing through his body at that moment. Since he had been in the
desert, there was a serious lack of the opposite sex, and what was available
was generally hidden in baggy Levi's and khaki shirts or flannels.
She sat like syrup flowing over the edge of a fresh stack of steamy pancakes.
He paused again, and she sensed his tension. "Do you think the tapes will
help?" she asked in a direct, business-like tone. The serious edge of her
voice helped put a chink in the spell Sam was in, and reality returned. Still,
he didn't know whether he could sit on the edge of the same bed as her without
melting or grabbing her. He paced.
"Hopefully, they will save our lives." Sam said, purposely looking out the
window at the desert below. "We'll need to contact someone tomorrow morning
and give them a taste of what we have. It may be our only hope to survive out
here." Then it dawned on him, and he spun to face her, as the candlelight
flickered on her fine, baby-soft features. She seemed to have a constant,
natural smile. "What will you do? Do you want to stay here? This is not
exactly paradise. Is there anything..." He could feel himself panic inside, as
if she was sitting on his bed for a farewell drink, then going to catch the
next bus out.
She stood and took his hand. With the other she pushed his right shoulder
until he was against the bed. With an additional nudge he sat. She leaned
forward, as if she was going to kiss him and said, "Relax." Pushing him onto
his back, she picked up one calf at a time and pulled off Sam's boots. "I
don't think there's anywhere I can go, now. I can't go back to the
studios, I'll be arrested. I don't know if any place out there would allow me
in. I'm certain the word has spread throughout the networks that I'm a
traitor, and I'll be banished. I'm afraid you may be stuck with me for
awhile." Suddenly her tone changed, "I'll work hard around here, Chopper. Just
name it."
Sam couldn't believe his ears, his eyes, or his nose, as her gentle perfume
consumed him. He had only lived in desert freedom for a couple of days now,
and although it was better than the restricted city, it lacked the female
touch and sensitivities. There were no warm sitting rooms with fireplaces and
rich liquors, no walks along the waterfront, long-flowing evening gowns, or
perfumed forms adorned with rouge and lipstick. His heart pounded. He couldn't
breathe correctly. For a moment, when she touched his leg, he thought he had
died and gone to heaven.
He sat up, touched her shoulder, and for the first time they hugged. His lips
touched her neck gently and melted. Immersed in her fragrance, he held her
close. "You're a bright star that just exploded in the sky like fireworks over
this joint", he said. They stood together and kissed.
"I'd better go, before we both explode," she said, flushing, and turned to
head for the ladder.
"Let's meet in the morning," he stammered.
"For breakfast?" she said, letting herself down the ladder.
"For anything, goddammit!" he said, avoiding a look straight down her
cleavage. "Good night."
"Good night, handsome," she said in her softest voice, and was gone.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. It was a heavy, heartfelt sigh.
His heart pounded like a sledgehammer in his chest, a hammering he hadn't felt
in 20 years. Two decades ago he was in the service and in love; a deadly
combination. The attraction and distraction from his duties almost cost him
his life. After he was discharged, he promised to marry her, but she couldn't
wait for his affections and found a college brat with ambition. His ambition
left her when her shape faded, but by then it was too late to return to Sam.
Ten years later he tried again, only this time he had passed the family stage
and didn't see any use for more bodies in the world. She was set on a family,
so Sam had to let her go.
Years passed and he dried up his emotional harvest. As restrictions grew, he
felt less of a need for a relationship. He knew society was lost and he didn't
want the weight of looking out for someone else in the crime-infested city.
Now he'd found a home, but with Red's invitation to escape was a clause of
responsibility for the entire renegade clan in the desert. Sam shuddered at
the thought of all the problems Red had thrust on him when he arrived. It was
one thing to be on a committee looking out for a tribe, but the risks were
constantly life-threatening. Suddenly another element was stirred into the
broadening mix: he was feeling emotionally attached to someone. This one
shapely girl could change the way he felt about the entire tribe. He finished
the Jack Daniel's and fell back on the bed. "Jesus," he muttered to himself,
"what's next?"
Sam awoke with a start and dug around his container for some clean clothes,
then he heard banging on his ladder. Michelle was there with a clean khaki
shirt, underwear, and socks. "Amber said you might be needing these." Michelle
spoke in that business tone again which intrigued Sam.
"You're right," Sam replied, and Michelle tossed the clothes to him.
"We've already got a call from some military advisor," Michelle said, her
eyes bright with anticipation. "Do you want Amber to patch it through to your
line?"
"Yeah, but only after a cup of coffee. And you'll need to be there with me to
answer any technical questions," Sam replied.
"I have a feeling," she said, her voice softening like a frozen cube of
butter in the afternoon sun, "I'll be close by for a long time to come. I'll
be right back."
Michelle jogged off in the sand to the chow hall where food was prepared for
anyone who wanted some. The available meals were plain, and supplies lacked
the variety of food to prepare anything but the basics. But most were content
to have the freedom that went along with the restricted menu. Sam watched her
jog away in disbelief, rationalizing to himself all the reasons he shouldn't
get involved, won't get involved, or why she would leave or decide that they
were not meant for one another for one reason or another. His mind raced as if
he'd snorted speed and drank two pots of coffee.
Michelle hollered when she returned and Sam dropped down the ladder to assist
her with a couple of plates of scrambled eggs and several buttered tortillas,
plus a couple of porcelain mugs of coffee. "You know, we could use a direct
line to some better stores," Michelle said.
They ate side by side. Michelle didn't complain about the food, the plate,
the heat beginning to lift off the desert, or the crude community showers. Her
eyes glowed with anticipation. "Tell me about yourself," Sam said.
"I grew up in Beverly Hills." My parents were nuts and I didn't see my dad
for 15 years. He lives in Alaska with his fifth wife. I went to USC, graduated
with a degree in journalism, played with real estate, and ultimately ended up
doing in-house publicity for GBS, that's how I got the tapes."
Sam nodded, watching her features intently. He liked the way she described
her family and business with a grain of salt. Nothing seemed to knock her out
of the emotional ring. Yet she spoke of people with a dry, uncaring attitude,
emphasizing their less-than-pleasant effect on her life.
"So," Sam said, trying to focus on the mission at hand, "who do you think we
should lay this info on?"
"What are our goals?" Michelle said, looking for information before she
answered.
Sam liked her thoughtful approach, and paused. "We should create a perimeter
around us that they can't cross without alerting us, as if we have our own
jurisdiction. We need to have access to at least one major store for
groceries, hardware and clothes, and we need to have a open territory for
people to reach us, if they want."
Michelle looked concerned, "How long will it last?"
"How long will what last?"
"This, this haven for bikers and hippies," Michelle said.
"I'm not sure," Sam started. "From the news reports I listen to and read, I'm
not sure we can survive for more than a couple of years. All we can do is hold
them at bay, until they find some way to legislate against us."
"I think the best politician for us is Dave Zien, a senator from Nevada,"
Michelle began to explain. "He stuck with the NRA guys right to the end. If
they haven't taken him completely out of the loop, we may have someone who
relates to the military and us simultaneously to negotiate on our behalf.
Remember guns were outlawed in California first in 1999, and Nevada was the
last state to give 'em up. Let's give him a call."
Red beat on the ladder, "Can I come up?"
"Sure, brother, get your ass up here," Sam said. "Where's Amber?"
"She's here," Red said, climbing the ladder.
"I was speaking to Michelle and she suggested that I call Senator Dave Zien.
Any thoughts?" Sam said.
"He was the NRA supporter?" Amber asked.
"That's right, he held out till the end," Red said. "I remember when the cops
first went door-to-door collecting guns. Then it was anything that had an
internal combustion engine attached to it, then mandatory smog checks."
"Let's give the guy a call," Sam said.
Michelle was already dialing the republican headquarters in Las Vegas, when
there was a clattering at the bottom of Sam's ladder.
"Hey, hey, up there. Somebody's coming," the anxious kid hollered up at the
group in the container.
"What's up?" Red said, sticking his head out.
"Some military jeeps headed our way," said the kid, jumping up and down in
the sand, scared as shit.
"Red, hold 'em off as long as you can. I'll try to reach this guy."
Red and Amber jumped out of Sam's iron abode and ran for the gate a quarter
of a mile away through a series of crushed steel catacombs. Above the tin
community on the jagged ridge, a couple of lookouts watched three jeeps and
what looked to be a sheriff's paddy wagon leave the highway and head directly
across the desert toward their encampment.
A guard with a walkie-talkie paced back and forth behind the gates of steel
bumpers welded together and latches with frame rails. He was less than 25 and
had never seen any action in his life. His parents escaped L.A. a year ago,
and he went along begrudgenly. He never experienced the level of freedom they
once had, so when he was forced to take weekly drug tests in grade school, it
was no big deal to him. When motorcycles were banned, he was too young to
care.
"How much time do we have?" Sam blurted, arriving at the gate.
"Five minutes," the kid said, asking for updates on the minute, with the
walkie-talkie pressed against his sweaty cheek.
Red went to the phone located in a burnt-out van adjacent to the massive
gates and dialed Sam's number. It was busy.
Michelle reached the republican headquarters. "Here's his number, ma'am, but
he may be in Washington fighting some law that'll only get passed anyway," the
woman on the other end said.
"Why are you working for republicans, if you don't believe in individual
freedoms?" Michelle snapped and hung up.
She dialed Dave Zien's office and the phone rang and rang before one of his
aids answered the phone.
"Senator Zien's office, may I help you?"
"Yes," Michelle said. "Is the senator in?"
"No, I'm afraid he's in Washington."
"Can you reach him?" Michelle asked anxiously. "It's an emergency."
"No," the aid answered in a smug tone.
"Two minutes," the kid said, almost pissing his pants. "What do they want?
Are we going to be arrested?"
"No," Red said, climbing to the top of the gate. Their wall had been
constructed over the last six months out of the flattest cars they could
muster. Each one had been placed end to end along their dusty grounds, then
securely welded together. Since the cars weren't completely airtight, they
offered perfect slits and crevices to place the barrels of guns through. After
the second layer of cars was attached, welded, and supported with old oil well
pipe, Sam retrieved hundreds of smashed guns from the steel crushers, which
were collected from the citizens. He then instructed his crew of welders to
stick the non-working weapons through the crushed carcass fence and weld them
in place. For all anyone outside the compound knew, this wall was an arsenal
of weapons waiting to be fired.
Sam sat next to Michelle and studied her features. "Listen, asshole,"
Michelle shouted into the phone, "we're in the middle of the desert and the
military is about to attack us."
"Let me get this straight," the aid began, "you are a part of the group in
the desert?"
"Yes, we are the group in the desert and the cops are at the door." Michelle
was turning red, as Sam paced his steel deck. "Are you going to let me speak
to the senator or not?"
"Hang on," the aid said, and she was put on hold. Suddenly Michelle had an
earful of Las Vegas show tunes. Sam stood in front of Michelle, his imposing
figure looming down on top of her. His outstretched hand lingered in front of
her face and she touched it with her hand gently, then set the cordless
receiver in it. "Your shot, handsome."
Sam put the receiver to his ear, took her hand in his, and pulled her to his
feet, then closer until his arm was around her, holding her against the side
of his chest.
"This is Senator Zien," Dave Zien said quickly, "can I help you?"
"I certainly hope so," Sam said, noting his helpful tone. "We've got some
sensitive material here. I can't tell you what it is, but it will rock your
boat. General Platt knows what we have and is willing to take this place apart
to get it. Can you hold him off long enough for you and I to meet?"
The four vehicles skidded to a stop in front of the wall of rusting metal and
chrome. A large, imposing officer jumped out, along with several junior
officers and a handful of enlisted men in full desert warfare garb. They stood
looking at the gate for 30 seconds, until one of them spotted the rifle
barrels from every crevice in the structure. They began shouting warnings at
one another, quickly got back in their vehicles, and disappeared around the
bend behind an outcropping of barren rocks. Soon the blare of a loud speaker
cracked, "In the compound, we know you can hear us. This is General Platt of
the Third Army. I want a word with your leader. We have a warrant to search
the compound for several people who attacked and kidnapped a woman from the
Desert Inn last night." The speaker cracked again and went dead.
Red wasn't sure what to do. He climbed to the top of the gates and shouted
back. "Send one of your men and the warrants around to the front gate and a
cell phone number. We'll communicate by phone."
"Bullshit," the general announced. "I'll bring enough firepower in here to
turn that pile of scrap iron into a lead weight, if I don't have my demands
met." The general's voice quaked with anger.
"No problem, General, sir," Red taunted. "We'll lay our women and children at
your feet, if need be. Just let me read the fucking warrant. If you want
another Waco, Texas, go for it."
Red's cell phone began ringing at his side and he yanked it off his belt.
"Yeah!"
"I've got Senator Zien on the phone," Sam said. "He'll talk to the general."
"If I can get him to talk, we may have something going," Red said. A young,
wary soldier appeared around the corner holding a group of warrants in his
hand and the general's phone number.
"Thank you son," Red said to the timid soldier. "We'll call your boss in five
minutes." The warrants ran the gamut from a search warrant for missing
government surveillance tapes, to assault, to kidnapping. Most were vague,
except for Michelle's, which was right on target. They wanted her back in the
worst way.
"Chopper, here's the general's phone number," Red said. "Ask the senator if
he will call him." The line went dead.
"Mr. Zien?" Sam said, transferring to another line.
"Yeah, I'm with you," the senator said. "I'll speak to him."
Platt paced outside his vehicle, and told one of his subordinates, "I'll be
in there in five minutes and we'll break up this gang of thieves once and for
all." His phone rang. He snapped open the lid and pressed the call button, "If
I'm not in that compound in five minutes, I'll blow the gates off your hovel
and arrest every single person in there. Now, am I coming in?"
"This is Senator Zien, General. I have arranged a meeting with Sam Orwell,
one of the leaders. I will take a search party in at that time and bring back
anything you need. With all due respect, General, back off."
"Zien, you're interfering where you don't belong." The general was fuming.
"This is a part of the area I represent and these people, popular or not, are
my constituents." Dave was holding his mud, but the general was feeling
pressure from other factions, much more powerful entities and needed a
concession desperately.
"Listen Zien, I'll allow this meeting to take place, if it happens within the
next 24 hours and I'm allowed to escort you out here for security reasons."
The general cajoled as well as a strict disciplinarian could.
"You've got a deal, General," Zien said, "with one exception. I will be the
only one to actually go into the compound."
Red, Sam, and Michelle were now pacing the compound, waiting for an answer.
Every time Sam's sharp blue eyes made contact with Michelle's emerald pools,
he found a new level of commitment to this group of dissidents.
The cell phone on the bed rang and they both leapt for it. Sam answered,
"Yeah?"
"Zien here," Dave began. "Listen, we have to move fast. Can we have a meeting
this afternoon, before those goons come up with a reason to raid your compound
with F-15s?"
"Sure," Sam said, "anytime."
"Two o'clock, then," Dave said.
"Two o'clock it is," Sam replied.
"I'll be escorted, but they won't be allowed in," Dave concluded.
"Thank you, sir," Sam said.
Dave hung up from his richly paneled office in the Rayburn Building in
Washington. He paused for a moment and looked out of the window, then picked
up the phone. "Get me Joseph Damaino on the phone and a seat on the next
flight to Las Vegas."
Michelle went to work patching the Beta deck to a VHS recorder and prepared
to make dupes of the tapes. She also called her contact in Los Angeles at ABC.
Noon passed and all four of them ate a simple ham sandwich lunch in silence.
They didn't know who to trust, who to believe, or where they might be living
or dying in the next 24 hours. The enormity of their grave situation hung over
them like an errant monsoon cloud.
"What if..." Red began.
"Don't give me any negative vibes," Sam said, remembering a line Donald
Sutherland used in Kelly's Heroes. "We don't have time for them." Then Deacon
emerged into the picture.
"What kind of security do we need?" Deacon asked in his inherent, gravely
voice. His crisp blue slits scanned the room. He was constantly distrustful of
women, and didn't like their involvement in his future.
Sam turned to him. "We'll need men all along the gates, Deacon. But be
careful you don't have any trigger-happy guys up there. For the most part, I
want the men to be invisible, unless Red gives the word. A senator will be
coming into the compound. Unless some military goons try to sneak in, we want
to appear as friendly as possible. You got that?"
"Sure, sure," Deacon said. "But..."
"Only one but," Red interrupted. "If those military guys head for the gate,
we draw down on them, and only then. And no firing. One bullet and they'll rip
this joint into a junkyard of tuna cans."
"All right, all right," Deacon said, and started to back away.
Sam got up from the Cadillac hood table and took Deacon aside. "We have a
shot here, man. We might be able to get those bastards to cut us some slack.
General Platt is on those tapes. He stands to lose everything if they're
aired, I mean everything: his career, status. And he may go to jail. If we give
him one excuse to come in here and get his hands on those masters and destroy
them, he'll tear our hearts out and feed 'em to the vultures without a second
thought. Can you dig what I'm saying?" Sam concluded.
"Yeah, but maybe we should get to him first, then air the tapes." Deacon
said, rubbing the 9mm Browning automatic on his hip.
"Not a bad notion," Sam said, "but I'm not sure we could move fast enough.
Keep in mind while they're strafing this joint with F-15s, that we'll be
trying to get these tapes aired. We may all be dead before the public sees the
news. I'd rather not be a martyr today."
"All right, we'll play it your way this time," Deacon said. "But personally,
I'd like to face him off and see what he's made of."
"Another time, Deacon, I have a feeling you'll have your shot.
Sam returned to the table and finished his sandwich.
"Will he be OK?" Michelle asked.
"For now," Sam said.
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