Mercury Revolts (18 page)

They didn’t dare try to enter
the city in the Suburban, since the National Guard had undoubtedly put up
checkpoints on all the roads. They ended up ditching the vehicle outside of
Kalamazoo and flying the rest of the way. They kept low to the ground, avoiding
roads and houses, with Mercury carrying Suzy. It was a terrifying but
exhilarating way to travel.

When they neared the
outskirts of the city, the two angels landed and they walked for several miles.
Suzy was so tired she could hardly put one foot in front of the other, and
several times they had to make detours to avoid checkpoints or National
Guardsmen walking down the street. Her mood was not helped by the banter of the
two cherubim, who had spent twenty minutes arguing about what to call people
from Kalamazoo.

“Kalamazooians,” said
Mercury.

“Kalamazooites,” replied
Perp.

“Kalamazoans,” said Mercury.

“Ooh, I like that one,” said Perp.
“But wouldn’t the plural be
Kalamazoa
?”

Mercury rubbed his chin. “My
friend Bill is from Battle Creek, but Glen and Freda are Kalamazoa.
Hmm.”

“Kalamazooers?”

Finally they reached a motel
and got a room. Suzy collapsed on one of the two beds while Mercury and Eddie
sat on the other, trying to figure out what to do next.

“You realize, of course,”
said Mercury, “that this is a trap.”

“So you figured it out too,”
replied Eddie.

“Of course I figured it out.
How dumb do you think I am? Damn it!”

“What?”

“I did leave my toothbrush.”
He smacked his lips together. “My mouth tastes like road tar and gnats.”

“Do you think she’ll actually
detonate the bomb?”

“Michelle?” asked Mercury.
“Yeah.
I mean, if she doesn’t, it won’t be because of any
kind of moral scruples. Michelle’s always had an authoritarian streak, and now
that she’s got nobody telling her what to do, all she’s got left is her sense
of order. She wants everything to be regimented, ordered,
controlled
.
And if she’s got to cause a little bit of momentary chaos to bring that about,
she’ll do that.”

“A nuclear blast in a city of
half a million people is ‘a little bit of momentary chaos?’” Eddie said.

“In the
scheme of things, yeah.
You nuke
one city and suddenly everybody in the country is clamoring for more security.
Look at what she’s accomplished already, with just the threat of a nuclear
attack: twelve cities under martial law. And nobody complains because Gabrielle
is assuring them that it’s temporary and only applies to a few cities. Except
of course it isn’t, and this is just the beginning. Michelle’s not going to
give up any power that she manages to get her hands on.”

“So we have no choice,” said
Eddie.
“Even if it is a trap.
We have to stop that
bomb from going off.”

“Whoa, take it easy on the
‘we,’ there, buddy,” said Mercury. “I told Suzy I’d get her here. I didn’t say
anything about defusing a nuclear bomb. I’ve already played that game, and it
doesn’t end well.”

“So what are you going to do,
leave?”

“Well, I’m not staying here
in Blast Radius, Michigan, if that’s what you’re asking.
Thought
I might hang out in Portugal for a while.”

“How can you just sit by
while Michelle detonates a nuclear bomb in a city?”

“I can’t. I have to fly to
Portugal. Weren’t you listening?”

“Thousands of people will
die.
Tens of thousands, probably.
That bomb will take
out most of downtown Grand Rapids.”

“Thousands of people die
every day,” said Mercury.
“Mostly from war and famine.
Most of the world is in chaos.”

“You sound like you’re defending
Michelle.”

“I’m not defending her; I’m
just saying this is the way things are. The world is in tension between order
and chaos. It’s always been this way. Sometimes things swing too far to the
side of chaos. Maybe it’s time for a correction.”

“Time for a… it’s a nuclear
bomb, Mercury! The fallout and radiation alone…”

“Not much fallout with a bomb
like Wormwood. I did some research on these bombs after I got blown up by one.
Turns out one of the advantages of ultra-grade plutonium is that there’s relatively
little radiation released. I mean, you’re not going to want to be downwind of
this place for a few weeks, but most of the damage is in the initial blast. And
it’s a painless way to die. You’re atomized before you even know what hit you.”

“Unless you’re on the outer
edge of the blast,” said Eddie coldly.

“Well, yeah. Third degree
burns and probably some radiation poisoning.
A slow, painful,
gruesome death over the course of a few days or weeks.
Damn it!”

“You forget your dental floss
too?”

“Huh? No, floss is in my
pocket. It’s unwaxed, though.” He shuddered at the thought. “So, you really
want to do this? Walk right into Michelle’s trap?”

“I just don’t see how we have
any choice, Mercury. We’re the only ones in a position to do anything about the
bomb. If we don’t stop it, we’ll have the deaths of thousands on our hands. I’d
rather try and end up in Michelle’s secret prison than just run away.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” said
Mercury. “I get it. There’s not enough beer in Portugal to make a guy forget
about people dying from radiation sickness. So what’s the plan?”

“Um,” replied Eddie.

“You’re going to make me come
up with the plan, aren’t you?”

Eddie smiled.

“All right,” said Mercury.
“First, we need to identify the weak link in their organization.”

Chapter Twenty
  
 

New York; 1779 - 1780

Lucifer’s poisonous words slowly
worked their evil in Benedict Arnold’s heart, until one day in the April of
1779 he penned a letter to the British General, Sir Henry Clinton. Written in
disguised handwriting and under the signature of “Gustavus,” the letter
described its author as an American officer of high rank, who, due to disgust
at the French alliance and “other recent proceedings of Congress,” might be
persuaded to switch sides in the war. Congress having recently spent a fair
amount of time dithering over the latest trumped up charges to be made against
Arnold, there was little doubt as to the identity of this “officer of high
rank.”

This initial letter led to a correspondence between Arnold
and Sir Henry’s adjutant-general, Major John André. At first Arnold offered
only his personal allegiance to the crown, but once he had begun to think of
himself as a British agent rather than an American officer, it was but a small
step for him to decide to take advantage of his position for the benefit of his
new masters. He entreated General Washington to put him in charge of West
Point, and Washington, who had long defended Arnold against the trifling
charges that plagued his career, did not hesitate to entrust his friend with
this strategically important post.

Arnold wasted no time in betraying Washington’s trust,
conspiring to meet with André to develop a plan for turning West Point over to
the British. It was agreed that Arnold would furnish the British with descriptions
of the fortresses and information regarding the disposition of the troops, as
well as arrange for the American troops to be in positions such as to make
capture by the British as easy as possible. And so it was that the British
co-conspirator, Major John André, found himself riding across an open field
just northwest of White Plains, New York, a scant three miles from the British
lines, with his boots lined with stationery from the desk of Benedict Arnold.

A betting man observing this situation would have given at
least ten-to-one odds of André reaching his destination and handing over the
intelligence to Sir Henry Clinton. And given this eventuality, the odds of the
British successfully taking West Point, forcing the surrender of 3,000 American
troops, and winning the war for the British, would have been very good indeed.
But history is riddled with accidents—fortuitous or calamitous, depending on
your point of view—and one of these accidents occurred to Major John André. An
objective observer might be forgiven for thinking that this particular accident
was part of some grand plan by a divine authority to bring about an American
victory. Or it might have been simply have been pure chance.

Or something in between.

“This way!” cried Mercury, steering his horse to the left.
The other six men hesitated.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing,
Long-Drink-of-Water?” one of the men called after him. “The tracks indicate the
ruffians fled this way.” He pointed to the left.

“That’s a false trail,” said Mercury, straightening his war
bonnet. “If I had a bead for every time I almost fell for a false trail, I’d
own Manhattan. Follow me!” He charged off down the path to the left.

The men behind him grumbled but followed after. They’d been
convinced of Mercury’s bona fides as a tracker when he managed to skewer a
pigeon at three hundred yards with his eyes closed, but now so far he’d had
little success in pinpointing the gang of ruffians the men had been chasing all
morning. Some of them were beginning to doubt whether he was even a real
Mohican. He wasn’t going to be able to keep up the ruse much longer.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to. “Look!” cried Mercury,
pointing at a lone horseman crossing the field toward them.
“Yon
ruffian!”

There was no reason to believe the man was one of the
ruffians they’d been chasing; there were half a dozen of them, and they’d been
heading in the opposite direction. Still, a man traveling alone through
disputed territory was worth investigating.

Mercury approached close enough to positively identify his
target and then held back, allowing his compatriots to take the lead.

The stranger stopped short as the men approached and
dismounted. He hesitated, but then smiled slightly as he noticed the Hessian
overcoat worn by the leader.

“Gentlemen,” said the stranger. “I hope you belong to our
party.”

“What party?” asked one of the
men.

“The party of England,” replied the stranger.

“We do,” answered the leader.

“Very good,” said the stranger. “I must tell you then, that
I’m a British officer, and must not be detained.”

“Is that right?” asked the leader. “Did I say that we’re
British? I meant American.”

The stranger’s face went white. He swallowed hard. “Then I
meant I’m an American officer.” He produced a passport signed by Benedict Arnold.
“You must understand, I claimed to be British only because I thought you were.”

“Yeah?” said the leader. “And what’s an American officer
doing this far from the American lines?”

“Please,”
said
the stranger. “You
can have my horse.
And my watch.
Just let me walk the
last few miles to White Plains.”

“I have a horse,” replied the leader. “And I already know
what time it is. Search him.”

The stranger was stripped, and the papers were found in his
boot.

The leader looked over the papers, which were damp from the
stranger’s sweat. After a moment he held them to his nose.

“Smells like treason,” he said.

Mercury sighed and turned away, leaving the men to arrest
Major André. He felt bad for the man; he was only doing his job, and he’d
likely be hanged for it.
As would Benedict Arnold, if he
could be caught.
After all Arnold had done for the American cause, it
seemed grossly unfair to Mercury. How could one mistake wipe out all the good
he had done? If only he hadn’t listened to Lucifer.

Having been through a lot of wars, this wasn’t the first
time Mercury had witnessed such a betrayal, and at first he couldn’t figure out
why this one was hitting him so hard. He had no personal interest in this war.
He’d only seen to the capture of Major André because Heaven had decided that an
American victory was definitely in their interest. If the British could take
West Point with minimal bloodshed and end the war, it would have been fine with
Mercury.

Ultimately he came to realize that he held himself
personally responsible for Arnold’s moral failure. If Mercury had been able to
come up with better answers to Arnold’s questions, maybe he wouldn’t have
switched sides. Arnold had glimpsed the angelic machinations behind the war and
must have felt like a puppet to forces beyond his control. If his mysterious
benefactor had seen fit to change sides, who was Benedict Arnold to question
him? Would it have changed anything if Mercury had told him that Rezon was
really Lucifer? Lucifer was just a name, after all. Had he given Arnold any reason
to trust an angel named Mercury over one named Lucifer? Angels and demons were
all playing the same game. It wasn’t Arnold’s fault that he had seen through
the charade.

Chapter Twenty-one
                  
 

Grand Rapids, Michigan; August
2016

Zion Johnson made his way slowly
across the rooftop of the Vanden Heuvel Building, flanked by four heavily armed
men in gear that was designed to camouflage them against the gray gravel of the
roof. He was moving slowly because he was using crutches, and in his left hand
he carried a heavy black duffel bag. His right knee was completely immobilized
by a cast, and with every movement pain shot through the whole right side of
his body. It wasn’t hot out, but droplets of sweat were pouring down his brow.
Zion Johnson wasn’t big on pain medication, particularly when he was working.

He could have had someone else handle this part of the job,
but Zion Johnson wanted to see the mission through. He’d made sure that the
bomb had fallen into the hands of Chaos Faction, and prevented the army truck
that the terrorists had inexplicably driven across the country from being
pulled over by any law enforcement agencies. With any luck, they’d driven to
the coordinates he’d provided and were preparing the detonated the Brimstone
bomb at the agreed-upon time. He mentally went over the note he had left them
for the hundredth time, concluding for the hundredth time that the instructions
could not possibly have been any clearer: the blueprints of the Vanden Heuvel
were merely a ruse; they were to be left somewhere near Grand Rapids to lead
the authorities to think that the terrorists had planned to attack the city.
Meanwhile, the bomb would actually detonate harmlessly several miles away,
scaring the shit out of the city’s half million residents but causing few, if
any, casualties.

Sure, there had been that frustrating Internet exchange with
the one called Nisroc, but Zion Johnson was fairly certain Nisroc was the
dimmest of the group. That Izbazel didn’t seem so bad. Yes, he had bungled the
truck hijacking, but everything had turned out OK. Except for all those dead
men, of course, but they knew what they were getting into. Well, not
exactly
what they were getting into. It’s not like they knew they were guarding an
illegal nuclear bomb whose owners had plotted to hand it over to terrorists.
But they knew,
in general
, the sort of thing they were getting into.
Anyway, that whole episode was the result of a simple misunderstanding. Izbazel
had thought the men in the truck were just going to hand over the bomb without
a fight. Zion Johnson had made a point of telling Nisroc the bomb would be
heavily guarded, but he hadn’t specifically told him that the guards would
shoot at anyone trying to take the bomb. It was
his own
mistake, really. He’d have to communicate more clearly in the future.

This line of thinking let Zion Johnson to wonder, for the
one-hundred-and-first time, whether his note had been clear enough. Realizing
that he was engaged in a circular train of thought, Zion Johnson focused on his
mantra.

Superior attitude, superior state of
mind.

Superior attitude, superior state of
mind.

Superior attitude, superior state of
mind.

The four men had completed recon of the roof and the ranking
officer gave Zion Johnson the all-clear sign. He nodded and signaled for the
men to fan out across the roof. They did so, hiding themselves behind air ducts
and vents so thoroughly that an ordinary person could walk within five feet
without noticing anything amiss—not that an ordinary person had any reason to
be strolling across the top of the Vanden Heuvel Building.

Zion Johnson set the duffel bag down in the middle of the
roof, unhooked a walkie-talkie from his belt and held it a few inches from his
face, surveying the empty roof. “This is Big Dog,” he said. “The package is in
place and the roof is secure. Shut down the elevators and get some men in the
stairwells. I don’t want anybody getting up here from below.”

Zion Johnson took a last look around.
Nothing
to do now but hope that this Mercury fellow takes the bait.
He hobbled
back to the stairwell.

Chapter Twenty-two
                 
 

Grand Rapids, Michigan; August
2016

Nisroc moved quietly from desk to
desk, emptying trash bins into the garbage bag hanging from a janitor’s cart.
He liked this sort of work. It was soothingly repetitive. Good, honest work,
too. Imagine what would happen if nobody ever emptied the trash bins. He
shuddered to think. It would be nice if Chaos Faction could do more work like
this, he thought. It seemed like a better way of making a living than blowing
up noses, but then what did he know? Nisroc always seemed to get in trouble
when he made decisions for himself. He was better at following orders.