Bayou Brigade (18 page)

Sweat was rolling off Slayton’s face. Baal’s hands had left white impressions on his throat. Baal thrashed and flailed like
a shark out of water, but Slayton bore down on the man’s neck and kept his face sunk into the black slime. The tip of the
bolt in Baal’s leg was near Slayton’s calf, coated with gore. Slayton shifted and put his knee into the small of Baal’s back.
The mercenary was almost out of air.

As Baal began to go limp, Slayton hauled his face out of the suffocating muck by the hair. He face was caked with mud, his
blue eyes glazed over.

Slayton was panting like an animal. “See how it feels,” he rasped. He jacked his arm around Baal’s chin and bore down on his
knee, yanking upward. Baal’s back splintered apart like a piece of dry cordwood. The body stiffened for a second, then went
as loose and lifeless as a puppet with cut strings. Slayton released, and the corpse plunged back into the sucking, dark ooze.

“You messed him up good,” said the Indian, helping Slayton to his feet. He nudged Baal’s carcass with his toe. “I am Habreau.”

“So I gathered,” Slayton said, standing and brushing himself off. “You saved our lives just now, you know.”

“I had to help you. You and the young woman would have died.”

“You live in these parts?”

“Yonder,” Habreau said, pointing west. “These outlaws stole my farmland to use as a practice range. I once had a fine sugar
crop.” Habreau’s eyes grew sad, then regained some of their fire. “Now I have a cause. I have been ambushing these Brigade
assholes for weeks, but never have I caught a fish like Baal.”

“How long have you been at this?”

“For weeks I have hunted them. I thought it was useless to wait for them to do me further wrong, to wait for them to kill
my family, before I might act. But yesterday I discovered the body of my friend Jacques Telemacques, who never harmed anyone,
who had a lovely young daughter, who is probably now dead.”

“Orial is dead,” said Wilma. “But Ben killed the man who did it.”

“It was Baal,” Slayton confirmed.

Habreau spit on Baal’s motionless corpse. “Then to you, sir, I am doubly obliged. Orial has at least been avenged, and so
has Jacques. Glad to be of service to you both. Now, I think, I must continue the hunt. You?”

Gunfire rang in the distance. Wilma stole a glance at Slayton, her eyes wide. “We should go, try to find the airfield.”

Habreau laughed, “You are there, miss. It is right beyond this grove of trees.” Slayton looked through the brush, noticing
the clearing up ahead.

“Are you in danger now?” asked Wilma as Habreau started to leave.

“No,” the Indian said, “they are not looking for me. I will hide where they can’t find me. It is you who must go —now. I can
hide so they can’t find me.”

Slayton called after him, “Is there an airplane at the field?”

Habreau didn’t look back. “The hangar on the north side. In the forest.” He rounded the corner of the stream and disappeared
from sight.

Slayton surveyed the airfield. A lone Brigade guard, not one of the soldiers on the hunt, waited silently at one end of the
dirt access road leading from the runway. Slayton estimated the hunters would catch up to them in five minutes.

“Wilma,” he said, “stay here with the gun. After you count to fifty, listen for the airplane’s engine and haul ass over to
where the guard is now. Try to keep him alive, but kill him if necessary.”

“I don’t know how to use this thing, really,” she con- fessed, staring at the machine gun in her hands.

“Don’t worry. Just make certain you have a good grip on it, and don’t fall over if you have to start shooting.”

He left her, running the length of the clearing while the guard focused his attention on something moving toward the runway.
It was a Big Mac semi truck, loaded to the gills with large black crates.

Wilma figured this was an arms shipment coming in from the New Orleans port. She crept stealthily to the edge of the runway,
hidden by a line of tall shrubs, about twenty yards from the guard.

Slayton had discovered the hangar and its contents, a gassed-up Cessna four-seater. He “hot-wired” the engine, a laborious
process that filled out the better part of two minutes. It was two minutes they desperately needed.

The truck driver showed the guard a shipping order. “Twelve cases. Do you have some way of unloading my rig?”

The guard shook his head. “We’ll hafta move them by hand.”

Wilma couldn’t make out their conversation, instead concentrating on the weapons crates. She noticed three large boxes marked
“grenades.”

The sound of the airplane revving distracted the guard and truck driver. Wilma stood up from behind the bushes and opened
fire, sending a volley at the area in front of the Mac truck, hitting the guard twice in the back and catching the driver
in a leg.

“Don’t kill me,” said,the trucker as Wilma approached. She was slyly apologetic, “The gun went out of control. I just meant
to scare you.”

She helped the man back into his truck, telling him not to move, that assistance would arrive. She had no idea what to say
as the Brigaders swept through the outer periphery of the clearing, and she had to make a dash toward the plane.

Slayton was hauling ass over the runway by now; the plane was warmed up and ready to go. Wilma met him as the plane taxied
into position. It stopped, and she boarded.

“Why did you mow them down like that?” Slayton asked.

“I’m sorry, I told you I can’t work one of these god- amn machine guns!“ t Although the Brigaders spit ammo at the plane as
it lifted from the runway, they were too far away to do any real damage by the attack… A few stray bullets ripped through
the rear fuselage.

They had been up for a couple of minutes when Slayton spoke.

“I think we should divert away from New Orleans,” he said. “There will probably be a welcoming committee of assassins ready
to jump us after we land.”

“Where can we go? How much time do we have?” Wilma spoke anxiously.

“Calm down. I’ll head toward Baton Rouge. We’ll make it; we have a full tank.”

The Brigade helicopter careened into view. Slayton went into a harrowing altitude plunge, avoiding a collision with the whirly-bird.

“Where was it? I didn’t see it coming at us!” Wilma clung to the cabin seat.

“They were following below us,” Slayton said. “Can you see them?”

Wilma nodded. “Yeah, and they’re opening the sliding door. It’s a huge gun, a rocket launcher or something.”

Ben increased the speed, pulling far ahead of the deadly helicopter, giving them plenty of time to breathe again. The Brigaders
moved out of range, turning back to camp, unable to pursue the Cessna.

Wilma cheered at the sight. “Bathurst, eat your mother-fucking heart out!”

An orange glow of sunlight followed the plane over the bayou. Wilma dressed the bullet wound on Slayton’s arm, using a first
aid kit in the storage compartment under her seat. Washington was six hours away.

The President’s address was tomorrow.

April 14.
Twenty-four hours till National Tax Day.

There was no time to clean up before their flight to the Capitol. Wilma and Ben were ragged and tired, clothed in khaki duds
supplied by the Air Force escort which had brought them cross-country. Winship was certain The Brigade would attempt the assassination,
based on what Slayton had told him on the phone the previous evening. Security was beefed up considerably, even at the secret
location where the President would deliver his address.

Up until ten minutes before the President went on the air live, Slayton and Winship were sweating it out in the Treasury Department’s
basement computer facility. Sorting out leads, info obtained from The Brigade and personal hunches, Slayton was narrowing
down a list of possible suspects, trying to determine who at the Capitol would be most likely to have access to the chief
executive, to get close enough during the speech to kill him.

“We’ve exhausted every potential file here, Slayton,” Winship moaned. “Let’s get over to the Supreme Court Building.”

“How much time is there?” Slayton was hunched over the terminal, flipping through data, tying it all together.

“About nine minutes. It’ll take us a few minutes just to run over there in time.”

“You go ahead of me, Ham.”

“Look, Ben, we have run all the Pentagon files on war deserters, all the obituaries we could find, secret dossiers on Vietnam
intelligence reports, etcetera. What else is there?”

“You want to go down in history as the fellow who let a terrorist in the front door to kill the President?”

“There are twenty, I repeat, twenty extra Secret Service men on guard in the building, armed Army personnel blocking off the
entire building, military police watching over the streets. How much security do you want?”

“No one should be with the President.”

“Oh, that’s right. You thought the killer would be one of our Secret Service boys.”

“It’s more than a possibility. It’s the only terminal cross-checking I have left to do. Then I run out of time.”

“I’ll go on, but remember, you have six minutes.” Winship left the room at- -a fast clip. There would be hell to pay if he
didn’t inform the Secretary of State that Slayton was unable to identify the killer. The address still had to go on as scheduled—the
President was adamant on that point.

Army jeeps parked in front of the Supreme Court Building formed a barricade, with reporters filing in behind it as MP’s directed
traffic.

Winship conferred with General Scott, who was in charge of the military security precautions, near the television cameras
in Room C. The press-conference room had been abandoned as a site for the broadcast—too many ways a man could attack the President
and exit in a hurry. Room C was enclosed except for one door, and could only hold fifty or sixty people, as opposed to the
press room’s hundred and fifty.

“We’re going,” said Scott, lifting his thumb at Winship. “Slayton hasn’t left the computer room yet,” said Winship. “He’s
certain the assassination is still on.”

“I think he’s full of shit. There’s no way an unauthorized person could get in here to shoot the President.”

The President spoke on a variety of topics, ranging from international terrorism to the economy to crime and violence in America.
He was not overly nervous, although he ran through his glass of water in about two minutes, and kept getting refills. Nothing
unusual occurred; all stations were secure.

A phone call for Winship.

“There’s a Mr. Slayton out here, sir.” It was the guard at the Room C door. “Says he’s found his man.”

“Send him in, by all means.”

The guard walked over to Slayton and nodded yes. Ben had sprinted full-speed from the computer facility, racing up the sidewalk,
praying out loud, “Let me get there in time.” This armed moron was doggedly getting permission,
wasting time.
With the affirmative reply, Slayton jogged to the door, telling the guard, “Leave this door open; don’t close it.”

The MP didn’t get a chance to answer back; Slayton vanished into the room.

The President was concluding a line “…and we shall never give in to the demands of arrogant, radical terrorists if…” He was
stifled by the commotion as Ben Slayton walked quickly in front of the cameras, lining himself up with the chief exec and
facing the cadre of Secret Service men to the left of the podium.

Slayton’s coat opened; the Smith & Wesson came out. From where Winship and Scott stood, it looked as though his gun was pointed
directly at the President. Scott was about to sound the alarm when Slayton stamped one foot on the floor.

“Duca! Steven Thomas Duca!” he yelled.

The gun swung over three feet to a secret Service guard stationed very close to the President. The man was taking a step forward
when Slayton’s command made him freeze.

“On the floor, Duca!” Slayton said, as the room buzzed with reaction.

Duca, a tall genial-looking man with dark hair and bushy sideburns, made a rush for the President. His arms were outstretched,
as if about to give him a huge hug.

Slayton fired into Duca’s chest, knocking the man to the floor, with blood squeezing out of a gaping bullet hole. He attempted
to stand, again moving toward the President.

Winship called to three guards on their way to subdue Slayton, “Don’t touch that man.”

Slayton pumped shot after shot into the incredibly strong Secret Service man. Duca staggered to the left, falling over with
four chest and stomach wounds, yet still trying to lunge forward. The President was retrieved by guards and protected, then
moved slowly to the opposite end of the room.

Duca pressed a control knob strapped around his waist. Slayton ordered everyone out of the way and reached for Duca’s jacket.
He turned the would-be killer around, dragging him to the door, and depositing him near the guard post. Duca was dying, but
had thrown the switch. Maybe if he was lucky, Slayton could toss Duca into the nearby men’s room.

No such luck. Duca was beeping, or rather, something in Duca’s jacket was triggering a fuse. Slayton dropped the body and
pushed back into Room C. “Get down! Get down!”

Duca blew up.

“Furthermore, Slayton, there was no excuse for barging into the room like that,” said General Scott.

Slayton brushed the dust from his suit and pants. The explosion had taken half the wall of Room C, but the injuries had been
minimal, with the exception of Duca’s. “I don’t think our leader would be alive right now if I hadn’t put Duca out in that
hall.” Slayton refused to let the General get away with his remark.

“But my men saw Duca moving suspiciously. We would have nailed him.”

“Not on your life.”

Winship took Slayton by the arm, leading him away from Scott. “You should be lucky I keep you and Scott apart, or else he’d
run your career right up a flagpole. His enemies are miserable people.”

“Fits his image perfectly,” Slayton shot back. They sidestepped the debris in the outer hallway and continued to the building
entrance.