NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (29 page)

He turned to the right, went a few blocks and parked in front of the Camellia Grille. He went in, sat down at the counter, ordered a club sandwich, and ate it while he drank a Dr Pepper.

“I wonder what’s up with all the sirens?” the man next to him asked.

“I think some guy may have had a heart attack on the street car,” Finis said as he got up, put a tip on the table, and waved to the waiters in their starched, pressed white chef shirts.

PRESIDENT BASCOM WHITFIELD
had been up three hours when the call came from Sherman Aloysius.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. President, they are on the move. Our troops are in place.”

“Keep your fingers crossed, Sherman,” Whitfield said. “And it won’t hurt my feelings if you say an occasional prayer.”

“I’ll get right on it, Mr. President,” Aloysius said as he went off the line.

As CM forces crossed the southern border of Virginia, Whitfield ran through his battle plan one last time. Then he knelt down and prayed.

“Lord, please don’t let me fuck this one up,” he said.

When he got to his feet, he called Ert and told him to pick up Leadoff and join him in the Oval Office.

•  •  •

Not far from the White House, Ithurial Finis finished his prayers as well. He did a few pushups and sit ups and strapped on his shoulder holster. He filled his ammo belt with rounds and stuffed his pockets with more cartridges for extra measure. He listened to troop movement reports from both camps on an earplug connected to a radio that monitored all frequencies. He lay down on his belly on the roof of the Holocaust Museum, put his binoculars to his eyes and watched everything that moved.

•  •  •

Like an eagle in its mountain nest, Agent Brown had spent the night on the observation deck of the Washington Monument, five hundred and fifty feet above the nation’s capital city. He slept little as he jumped from portal to portal in search of any sign of Ithurial Finis.

“Like I could see him from up here,” he said to himself in the darkness of three o’clock.

At five, he descended the eight hundred and ninety-seven steps to ground level and took up his final position at the edge of the tree line between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. He could see the dark granite wall of the Vietnam Memorial through the poplar trees behind him when he got on the ground and covered himself with his tarp. His right hand rested on his sniper rifle as he hunkered down in the wet grass.

Finis watched his movements and marked his position.

“That’s the spot I would have chosen, too, Agent Brown,” Ithurial said

•  •  •

J. Franklin Westmoreland, Leon, and Stanley rode in a Humvee near the front of the CM convoy with the general in charge of the attack. Westmoreland wore a tailored camouflage outfit and aviator sunglasses. Stanley and Leon had on business suits to distinguish themselves from the combat soldiers.

“I suggest we drop you off at the last checkpoint south of Washington,” the general said to Frank and his entourage. “You and I will have instant access, and you will be out of harm’s way.”

“We’re going wherever you go, general,” Westmoreland said. “I never want my boys on the ground to say I was afraid of a fight.”

“You have to think about the contingencies, Frank. The movement can’t afford to lose its leader. Why don’t you hang back and let Leon and me go to the front.”

“And miss all the fun?” Westmoreland said. “I’m going to the front lines and that settles it.”

“Me, too,” Leon said as if someone might care.

In the dim light of morning, the CM convoy approached a flat stretch of Interstate 95, bordered by hills, a perfect spot for an ambush. Not hidden, but in plain sight, Federal troops and equipment lined the highway, their rifles on their shoulders, their 50-caliber machine guns silent.

The CM forces watched the Federals as they drove by them and wondered what would happen should they return along that same route.

Several times along their northbound route on I-95, the CM forces met Federal troops that formed a narrow corridor for them, their massive tanks on either side of the road. As the end of the convoy passed by, Federal forces moved their tanks into the highway to block any retreat. Several times U.S. Air Force jets buzzed the column, but never strafed it with deadly machine gun fire as they could have.

The commanding general of the CM forces had anticipated it might take days to move his forces to Washington. Instead, they arrived on the outskirts of the District four hours after they started. As it neared Arlington National Cemetery, the caravan slowed as CM soldiers removed their caps in tribute to the fallen warriors who had found their final resting spot on grounds seized from the family of Robert E. Lee.

Soon the convoy reached a bridge over the Potomac. In front of them on the far side of the river, the soldiers saw the outline of the Lincoln Memorial, on the steps of which Martin Luther King, Jr. had made his famous “I Have a Dream Speech” years before they were born.

When the convoy reached the Washington side of the river, the troops again encountered a virtual tunnel that forced them along Independence Avenue, passed the Jefferson Memorial on its right hand and up a slight rise to the open field surrounding the Washington Monument.

The CM general in command directed his forces to leave the roadway and form a front parallel to Constitution Avenue on the north side of the monument. When the convoy finished taking its position, CM troops faced the south lawn of the White House in the distance. Between them and President Whitfield’s residence Federal troops lined Constitution Avenue armed for bear.

“Looks like we have reached the end of the line, Prophet Westmoreland,” the general said as he surveyed the scene. “I await your order to open fire.”

•  •  •

In the Oval Office, President Whitfield, Sherman Aloysius, Ert Roberts, and Leadoff Pickens stood together. Whitfield had on the same clothes he wore in the cotton patch on 4/11, his work boots still caked with rich, black south Texas soil.

“I haven’t forgotten my roots,” Bass said to the others as they looked at his wardrobe.

“Are you ready, Mr. President?” General Aloysius said. “The time has come.”

“I’m ready as I will ever be,” Whitfield said.

They marched out of the Oval Office. When they got outside, they stepped up into a Jeep with an open top.

“Take us to the command post at Constitution Avenue,” Sherman said to the driver.

As the vehicle that carried them covered the few hundred yards from the West Wing to the command post, American soldiers along the way stood at attention and saluted their Commander-in-Chief. When they reached their destination, the men got out of the Jeep. They could see the CM forces arrayed in front of them, poised to attack.

Sherman went to his commander on the ground.

“Get their general on the horn for me,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the commander said. In a few seconds, he returned with a walkie-talkie in his hand.

“He’s on the line, sir,” the commander said as he handed him the radio.

“General, this is General Sherman Aloysius, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. I have a message for J. Franklin Westmoreland from the President of the United States.”

“If you will give it to me, I will deliver it,” the CM general said.

Aloysius walked towards the CM line so that the general could see him as he talked. He spoke into the radio for a few seconds as he looked in the direction of the CM command post.

“I will await your response,” the general said as he ended the call. He lowered the walkie-talkie to his side, turned his back to the opposing forces and walked back behind the American lines.

“The fat’s in the fire,” he said to the President and his advisors.

•  •  •

The CM general tore a scribbled note off a pad and walked to Frank Westmoreland. Leon and Stanley stood shoulder to shoulder with him as the general delivered the message.

“President Whitfield wants to meet with you, face to face,” he said.

“Did he say when this meeting is to take place?” Westmoreland asked.

“Now,” the general said.

“Where?” Stanley asked.

“Right there,” the general said as he pointed to the open field, the no man’s land between the American troops and the CM forces.

“That’s it?” Leon asked.

“No, there are a couple of other things,” the general said. “He sent you this note.”

The general handed him the scrap of paper.

Westmoreland took the note and strained to make out the writing on it. Leon grabbed it away from him.

“It is a biblical reference. All it says is 1 Samuel 17,” Leon said. “Does anyone have a Bible?”

No one in the CM command post did.

“I know the reference,” Westmoreland said. “I’ve preached on it many times. It is the story of David and Goliath. President Whitfield has challenged me to a battle of champions, winner take all. Remember David’s words to the godless Philistine, ‘And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword and spear: the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give you into our hands.’”

When Frank finished his recitation, he paused as if he were in the pulpit expecting a chorus of amens.

Stanley, Leon, and the general watched him. No one said a word.

Westmoreland walked to the far side of the command tent as he considered Whitfield’s message. After a few seconds, he looked over his shoulder at the general.

“Tell him I will accept his challenge,” he said.

The general looked at Westmoreland in shock. He looked to Stanley and Leon, but both of them turned away from him.

Finally Stanley said, “General, you said there were a couple of things. What was the other one?”

“He said to bring a gun,” the general said. He unfastened the gun belt that held his Government Model 1911 .45-caliber pistol and held it in his hand. “I would be honored if you would take this one, Prophet Westmoreland.”

Westmoreland walked over to the general and took the gun belt, strapped it around his waist and patted the pistol lightly with his right hand.

“Let them know I am ready,” Westmoreland said.

The general picked up the walkie-talkie, pressed the call button and said, “I have delivered the President’s message.” Then he threw the radio on a card table that served as his makeshift desk, walked to the tent opening that faced Constitution Avenue and stared at the American troops.

Before Westmoreland could make a move, several U.S. soldiers stepped to one side to allow a man to pass between them. President Whitfield emerged from the ranks and walked across the road onto the grass towards the CM convoy.

He kept coming.

When Frank Westmoreland saw Whitfield’s advance, he stepped out into the open space and strode towards Whitfield.

The two leaders met up in the middle of no man’s land. They stood face to face, no more than ten feet apart. Westmoreland realized for the first time that Whitfield was unarmed.

As he watched from inside the CM command post, Stanley whispered, “Who is David and who is Goliath?”

•  •  •

Agent Brown saw the men stop. He watched for any indication that Westmoreland was about to draw his weapon. While he waited, he caught a glimpse of movement atop the Holocaust Museum as a gun barrel protruded over the edge of the roof line for a second then was gone.

“You’re not killing the President on my watch, Finis,” he said as he crawled backward into the trees, jumped to his feet with his rifle in his hand and sprinted south along the west side of 17
^th
Street. Behind the CM lines, he cut a diagonal across the open field and kept his eyes on the Holocaust Museum and the streets around it.

When Brown was about halfway across the field, he caught sight of a figure as it moved north parallel to 15
^th
Street. It was a large man with the speed of a cheetah, a revolver in his hand.

•  •  •

Whitfield and Westmoreland stared at each other, frozen on the brink of history.

Whitfield was the first to speak.

“I take it that the meaning of my note wasn’t lost on you.”

“Every nation needs a champion,” Westmoreland said.

“Today, our countries have their chance,” Whitfield replied.

Both men looked around them at the arrayed forces. A dark cloud passed in front of the sun and cast its shadow on the field of battle. There was no hint of a breeze, not a bird’s song.

“Too many people have died already. I don’t want any more names added to the count of the dead,” President Whitfield said. “I have a proposition for you.”

“I, too, would like to put an end to our struggle,” Frank said. “It was never my intention for our brothers and sisters to bathe in blood. What is your proposal?”

“I propose we live in peace, not as two nations, but as one. To do so, you must accept the rule of law enshrined in our Constitution while we must embrace righteousness as God grants us the wisdom to know it. Neither task will be easy; both will test us to our limits. The other choice is the way of death and destruction, a path the world knows all too well.”

As the men talked, Sherman, Ert, and Leadoff watched from one edge of the open field, Leon and Stanley from the other.

“What you say is true, President Whitfield. But we both know that deeds seldom match words. We have come to this point in our collective histories because our actions have belied our creeds. Why should anyone believe that what we say today marks a departure from the old ways? What proof could I offer to those who have abandoned hope that they will ever see justice in this life?”

“The proof is my life,” Whitfield said.

“What do you mean?”

“I offer you my life, Prophet Westmoreland. You may take it from me as a sign that I represent those things that are evil. If you do so, I have ordered my troops to allow you and your forces to return to your homes. When you get back to the seat of your government, you can tell all who will listen that the Lord gave you the victory, that you by God’s hand slew the devil. The future of our countries will then be charted by hands other than mine. Perhaps that would mean peaceful co-existence between our nations; more likely, it would mean all-out war.