“They aren’t terrorists?”
“Definitely not,” said Cole, who was with them now. “They’re the opposite. They were killing all uniforms, but leaving civilians alone wherever possible. Warning them to stay off the streets. These guys mean to occupy and govern New York, not terrorize it and run away.”
“Are we under arrest?” asked Reuben.
“Hell no,” said Charlie. “But they said they were sending choppers to pick you up. So take my car—it’s a Ford Escort back up the road, just press the remote and see which lights come on.” He handed Reuben the keys.
“You’re going to be in deep shit about this,” said Reuben. “I can’t take your car.”
“Take it and I’ll make them eat their shit,” said Charlie. “We were down there with infantry before those cops started coming up the tunnel. I know which side you’re on.”
“I don’t even know what the sides are yet,” said Reuben. “This could be a right-wing militia group that picked New York to punish the capital of pansy left-wing weenies. Or it could be a left-wing militia that went for New York because they think they’ve already got the hearts and minds of the citizens.”
“Whoever they are,” said Cole, “they’ve got a really cool weapons designer and they’re willing to blow their own brains out rather than be captured.”
“Get to my car and go,” said Charlie. “I didn’t get the message till you were already gone.”
THIRTEEN
PASSWORDS
How much responsibility do you bear for the ill uses others might make of your ideas? Almost as much as the responsibility you bear if you fail to speak your ideas, when they might have made a difference in the world.
Reuben stayed off the toll roads on the way back to Aunt Margaret’s house. Too easy to stop traffic for an ID check. Besides, they’d be transporting troops northward. The toll road would be blocked up for miles.
“It probably isn’t right to take Charlie O’Brien’s car all the way to West Windsor,” said Cole. “But I don’t see us riding a bus back, either.”
“It’s wartime,” said Reuben. “We’ll mail him the keys and tell him where to pick up his car.”
“I keep running my head into a brick wall here,” said Cole. “How could weapons like this be developed without any intelligence service knowing about it?”
“Easier than you think,” said Reuben. “Defense Intelligence is mostly looking abroad for weapons development and manufacture. If they have a key guy in the FBI who knows what not to pass upward to his superiors, or who can steer agents away from the right direction, you could probably do it in some out of the way place in this country.”
“They had to transport those mechs to New York.”
“On trucks painted with the ABF logo so nobody looks twice at them.”
“There are inspection stations.”
“It’s all about money and true believers,” said Reuben. “Most of the people in the know are true believers in the cause. They don’t talk. And those who aren’t true believers are paid a lot of money, and they don’t know much anyway.”
Cole pushed SEEK on the radio to find a broadcast station running news.
They were all running the news. But it was still scattered. Some kind of disturbance in New York. Two downed jets. Firing reported. All landlines and cellphones silent. Rumors of aliens, of military convoys heading north through New Jersey, warships sailing toward New York, Marines getting ready to land, National Guard troops called out in New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut.
And, oh yes, preparations for the funerals of those who died on Friday the Thirteenth.
“Great. That’s how they’re going to refer to the assassination of those good men,” said Reuben. “Friday the Thirteenth. As if their deaths were simply a stroke of bad luck.”
“This is what you were doing, isn’t it,” said Cole. “Working with weapons sales and development. You know how weapons systems are hidden and how they’re found.”
“I think I was their patsy all along,” said Reuben. “I’ve been going over shipments and contracts. I was tracking some, I was carrying out others. Bidding, buying, selling, passing money to third parties to pass along to fourth parties. They told me I was fighting terrorism, helping penetrate organizations. But I think I may have shipped some of this stuff to the staging areas.”
“They did this using government budgets?”
“I don’t know whose money I was using. I was a middle man. An errand boy. I had to be smart because sometimes the assignments were dangerous. Guys who’d rather take what you delivered and keep the money, which meant killing me. Sending me helped assure that things didn’t get ugly.”
“How did you prevent it?”