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though.  Will do. In fact, I'll even get them dressed up like a doctor or
nurse.
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Tyrone hung up, feeling a bit better. But what would the army do? Or
rather what would the President order it to do?
* * * *
Jeremiah Jones was in his element. TheMasterville Clarion's presses
were running almost constantly, trying to supply citizens of the valley
with updated and accurate news. He and his news editor were being
buried under a load of stories, items and fillers sent to theClarion in
response to his plea to all of his contacts for honest reports and
factual information. He had other temporary hires surfing the net for
more data and he was paying stringers across the country that he
trusted for news items.
Each completed edition of theClarion was in turn sent back out to
every form of media, over his personal assurances that he had
checked every word, insofar as he could, for accuracy. Up until
Shirley's story broke, the battle had been somewhere close to a draw,
with roughly half the country believing Masterville's version of events
and the other half going with the President. And then the radioactive
bomb went off.
* * * *
The explosion didn't kill a single soldier directly, though a few would
die soon from radiation poisoning. Others would succumb later in life
from being unfortunate enough to have been in the fallout pattern,
but overall effects of the explosion were relatively light. It was the
President who got caught in the real fallout.
* * * *
Murray Phillips knew the game was up as soon as the President
stopped returning his calls. Within a few days, maybe even sooner,
Bobby Lee would come out with a statement absolving himself of any
connection whatsoever with the stolen uranium and subsequent use
of it. He would blame it on the Director of the NSA, and say that
Murray Phillips had formed a rouge cabal within the NSA in order to
use the radioactive material in a weapon without his knowledge.
Phillips didn't know whether the President could get away with his
story or not, and at this point he didn't care. He was running for his
life, literally. Like Shirley, he controlled a contingency fund of already
laundered cash, though his stash was much greater. He closed and
locked the door to his office then opened his personal safe. He filled
his briefcase full of stacks of bills, mostly hundreds and fifties with a
few tens mixed in, then pulled clothing he kept in a closet to place on
top of the bills. He placed his passport in his inside jacket pocket. He
scanned the room swiftly. Was there anything else to take? His gun?
No, he couldn't get through the airport security with it, not without a
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ton of trouble, even if he was Director of the NSA. His gaze fell on the
picture of his wife and daughter, now in college, sitting in a
prominent place on his desk. He closed his eyes in a brief prayer,
knowing the kind of scrutiny they would come under after his
disappearance. It would go hard on them, but not nearly as hard as it
would on him if he were caught. He picked up his briefcase and
walked out of his office, leaving the picture where it was.
 I'll be gone for a while, he said as he passed the outer office where
his administrative assistants lived.  You can get me on the portable
number if you need me.
Downstairs, he walked out to the street and waited for a cruising taxi
to come by. He fidgeted uneasily and eyed each passerby with his
flinty gaze. He was almost in a state of paranoia now, worried about
being caught, thinking of thieves who could pass him and grab his
briefcase and all the money it contained.
He saw a taxi coming his way and stepped forward to get into position
to hail it. Just as he raised his hand, a familiar voice shouted at his
back.
 Mister Phillips, wait! Wait up!
He turned, recognizing who it was.
 Mister Phillips, don't leave yet! Crafton was panting heavily, as if he
had run down the stairs in order to save time. In fact, that was exactly
what he had done.
 Sorry, Crafton, I have some urgent business to take care of. He
turned his back on his subordinate.
Crafton grabbed his upper arm and pulled. Phillips staggered and
watched the taxi pass.  Let go, you fool! He said.
 Mister Crafton, you have to help me. They're accusing me of
knowing about that stolen uranium. Please, you've got to tell them I
had nothing to do with it!
 I'll take care of the matter for you, but later, Crafton. Right now I
have to go! He saw another taxi coming his way.
Crafton backed off, suddenly suspicious. He had read every story he
could, and had been watching the television in his office almost
constantly. Phillips was in deep trouble himself, deeper than his own.
And he was leaving on urgent business he said. Where was his
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limousine? Why was he standing out in drizzling rain waiting on a
taxi? And his briefcase? Didn't an aide usually carry his belongings?
Everything about him standing here like this was wrong, and he could
think of only one explanation: Phillips was going to make a run for it.
Crafton waved the taxi away before Phillips could hail it. He wasn't
going to take this fall. Bad enough that Shirley had named him as the
former Officer In Charge of the Masterville Op, a clusterfuck if he ever
saw one, but this was worse. Now a source was reporting that he
might have known something about that dirty bomb. He couldn't let
that go unanswered; not and stay out of prison-or worse. He grabbed
at Phillips again as he started to walk away.
Phillips turned angrily, wishing now that he had brought his pistol so
he could threaten to shoot this fool if he didn't get the hell away from
him. He shook himself free momentarily but Crafton was persistent.
 You're not going off and leaving me holding the bag, you bastard!
Crafton yelled, reaching for his superior again as Phillips tried to
leave. He got a hold on the tail of Phillips coat and dug his feet in.
 Let go! Help! Phillips shouted, not the wisest move he had ever
made in his life. Passers-by halted at the shouted plea for help, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]