Standing at the Edge Page 3

  Except that morning, his mind refused to wander away from worries and fears. He tried to focus on the moon. But no matter how long he gazed at the Sea of Tranquility, he couldn’t avoid the feeling that great events were charging toward him like an enraged rhinoceros. His mind whirled with vague, ill-defined hopes and threats, and he felt like a man standing at the edge of a tornado.

  To anyone looking up from the desert below, the tip of his cigar might have appeared as fire in the mouth of a spectral figure outlined in the pale dawn light. When the smoke turned harsh, he tossed the butt into the darkness of the valley below and watched the glowing tip tumble away. It reminded him of the day long ago atop the Hohensalzburg, when he’d tossed away a good cigar because Tom Steeple had ordered him brought to a meeting by force. At least he got to finish this one.

  #

  0727 hours

  “I’m bored, Norm.”

  “Hmm?” Norm Fleming scanned through a clipboard of papers in his lap. “You’re bored? I’ll be happy to let you read some of these reports on training. It’s really good stuff, better than coffee to wake you up.”

  “I see you haven’t forgotten how much I love sarcasm.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “Well, bored is the wrong word, anyway… anxious… expectant… antsy, that’s the word. I’m feeling antsy.”

  Fleming checked his watch. “You didn’t call me up here before breakfast because you’re antsy, did you?”

  That was exactly why he’d called Fleming to his office, but Angriff realized how ridiculous that sounded. “Of course not. I need your help deciding my schedule for the next few days, picking priorities, that sort of thing.”

  Fleming laid the clipboard on the couch beside him and gave Angriff his familiar stone-faced look, the one that meant stop the shit.

  “All right, all right, I’m antsy, I can’t sit still, and I thought you might have a recommendation,” Angriff said. “I’m getting cabin fever, cooped up in here all winter.”

  “You’ve been outside.”

  “For an hour or two.”

  “Whose fault is that? You’re in charge of this whole thing; you could have built a snowman by the main gate if you wanted to.”

  But Angriff didn’t smile. “I wish it was that simple. To tell the truth, I’m starting to empathize a little with what Steeple had to do on a daily basis, making one decision after another and all of them important. And then, on top of everything else, he got this place built. He definitely had a genius for organization.”

  “So now you’re a Tom Steeple fan?”

  “Ha. That’ll be the day. But I’m sick of paperwork. I’m tired of making endless decisions about this year’s crops or approving training schedules. I need to get out of here for a while… the Crystal Palace feels more like the Crystal Coffin.”

  “The paratroopers make their fifth jump tomorrow over at Broken Leg ridge. It’s almost fifteen hundred feet up, the highest one yet. You could take a bullhorn and sing Blood on the Risers for them. I’m sure they’d appreciate that. Or jump with them.”

  “Thanks, I think I’ll pass. I’m already jump qualified. What about the cavalry? I’d love a long trail ride.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You know they’re heading out for a fifty-mile ride—”

  “Perfect! I’d better go get dressed.”

  “—and that I’m going with them. We can’t both go and I’ve already been riding in preparation. You’re not taking this away from me.”

  “I could,” Angriff said, allowing the slightest whine into his voice.

  Fleming picked up on it and smiled; only old friends could interpret such subtle messages. “But you won’t. If you want to ride, Nick, you need to start practicing. My thighs felt like jelly for a week after I started again.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Go into Prescott. You haven’t been there for a few months, and I know Mayor Parfist would love to see you. Inspect the new battalion down there… see if it’s really up to Marine standards. Find out how much they’ve managed to rebuild over the winter.”

  “I get reports.”

  Fleming put up his hands. “You’re the one who said you needed fresh air.”

  #

  0740 hours

  “Good morning, sir,” Sergeant Schiller said as he carefully placed a mug of coffee on Angriff’s desk.

  “Morning, J.C. What’s new in the world?”

  “You want good news or bad?”

  “Give me the good. I’m tired of bad news.”

  “The good news is there isn’t any bad news.”

  “For once.”

  “Doctor Goldstone’s report on the barley crop is in your inbox.”

  “Good. Find Colonel Walling, tell him I want to go into Prescott.”

  “Today?”

  “Now.”

  #

  Prescott, AZ

  1056 hours

  “I’m damn impressed, Rick.” Nick Angriff pushed through the front door of the Prescott Courthouse and paused near the columns, an unlit cigar in his jaw. He’d cut down to five a day to make them last longer.

  “No thanks to me, General. The people have worked their butts off. With winter gone and better weather ahead, I expect we’ll stay ahead of schedule. It would really help if we could get the power back on.”

  “Do you have everything else you—”

  At the crack of a rifle, Angriff felt something clip his right ear. He dropped to one knee and reached for a Desert Eagle. With his other hand, he pulled Colonel Walling down just as a second shot zipped past. Rick Parfist’s instincts hadn’t dulled and he’d already dropped to his belly on the cold marble step. Guards in the plaza returned fire, aiming at a roof across the street.

  “Get behind a column!” Angriff said.

  Parfist rolled back under the building’s protective portico, while Angriff half-dragged Walling to safety. A third bullet ricocheted off the granite behind them.

  “I’m damned tired of being shot at!” He touched the tip of his ear and came away with blood.

  Before either Parfist or Walling could reply, something boomed in the distance.

  “General, are you okay?” yelled a lieutenant who crouched behind the granite base of Bucky O’Neill’s statue, not far from the bottom of the steps. “You’ve been hit!”

  “I’m fine, son. Can you see the shooters?”

  “Roof across the street, sir! I’ve detailed a squad to shut them down.”

  “Do you have a radio? We need prisoners. Make sure they know that.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Did you hear that explosion?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Any idea what it was?”

  “Not a clue, General.”

  The firefight continued, but Angriff was out of danger and his concerns had moved to other things. He turned to Walling. “B.F., take Mayor Parfist to the comm. room and see what you can find out. If we’re under a general attack, I want to know it.”

  “What about you, General?” Walling said.

  “I’m staying here.”

  “Sir, do you think—”

  Angriff interrupted him. “I’m not going to get shot! But if they take prisoners, I want to see who wanted me dead.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Walling risked open disagreement with his commander. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stay here, General.”

  “And I’d rather have you finding out what the hell is going on!” Angriff’s tone was sterner than he’d intended, but Walling had taken him by surprise. “Just go, B.F. I promise I won’t die until you get back.”

  Another explosion added emphasis to his words, closely followed by a third, then a fourth.

  “Go get me some hard information!”

  #

  1059 hours

  Norbert Cranston stood atop the frame of a rusted-out Dumpster and directed his men as they looted a warehouse. In the distance, he heard gunfire, and knew his sniper te
am had gone through with the mission. It was damned near suicidal and he’d been afraid they might surrender in return for a good meal.

  The explosion that had blown out the building’s back wall would bring an immediate armed response. To block that, Cranston had deployed his most reliable men on the streets leading to the warehouse. Their mission had to succeed; they needed food and they needed it now.

  When explosions two, three, and four reverberated over the city, he nodded in satisfaction. Nobody had been sure the homemade bombs would go off until they did. With any luck, they’d be gone before anybody figured out which bomb had gone off at the real target.

  One of his men ran out through the jagged hole in the brick wall, stumbling through the rubble and grinning. “Colonel, there’s beer in there!”

  Cranston’s response was immediate. “Leave the beer. Take only what I told you.”

  “C’mon, Colonel, it’s been a long winter!”

  “I said no! It’s too damned heavy. Now, do what I tell you.” Cranston gripped the butt of a pistol stuck into his belt, but didn’t draw the weapon. The man gave him a nasty look before stumbling back into the warehouse.

  #

  Chapter 4

  Wearing a bullseye, fulfilling my pledge,

  Knowing I’m a target, standing at the edge.

  Sergio Velazquez, from Standing at the Edge

  Prescott, AZ

  1109 hours, April 10

  Scowling, Angriff stood with arms folded next to the statue of Buckey O’Neill. A squad of riflemen dragged two prisoners toward him. The fallen Rough Rider stared down from atop his rearing horse, as if watching to see the legendary Nick the A dispensing justice.

  “It was just these two men, General,” said the same lieutenant from earlier. The name on his uniform said Melendez. “We caught them on the back stairs and they didn’t resist.”

  Angriff studied them. Their faded battle dress uniforms sagged on their bodies and their faces were gaunt, their eyes sunken. They looked half-starved and he figured it wouldn’t take much prodding for them to talk. Their uniforms told him they had been part of Lester Hull’s so-called Army of the Republic of Arizona. Prisoners from the previous year’s battle had verified that they wore BDUs because there had been a huge surplus of them stored in Prescott. The prisoner on the left looked very young.

  “Any casualties?”

  “Just you, sir.”

  Angriff touched the crusty blood on his ear. He’d forgotten about the wound. “Good. Have you questioned them yet?”

  “We tried, but they wouldn’t talk to us.”

  “We’ll fix that right now.” He took one step closer to the prisoners and Nick the A came out. The veins on his neck protruded, his face turned red, and his eyebrows met in a V. His lips parted slightly to expose gritted teeth. Trembling shook his face as though he fought to keep from killing them.

  The man on the right kept his head down, but the other cast his eyes away, just for an instant. That was all Angriff needed to see. He pointed to the one on his right. “Take that man away, out of earshot. Leave the other one here.”

  Before anybody could move, the one on his right spoke up. “You better not tell him—”

  Angriff drew a Desert Eagle and shoved the tip of the barrel into the man’s mouth faster than any of them could follow, stifling the rest of his statement. With hands pinioned by the guards and a huge gun in his mouth, he looked up with a panicked expression.

  “You were going to tell him not to lie to me, right?”

  The man nodded.

  “Good.” Angriff holstered the gun. “Get him out of here.”

  Once they were alone, Angriff’s demeanor changed again. “You hungry, son? You look like you could use a good meal.”

  The young man’s eyes darted back and forth. He looked up, then back down, then side to side, and then back up and met Angriff’s gaze.

  “Don’t be afraid; nothing’s going to happen to you. Talk to me.”

  The man bit his lip but stayed silent.

  “You’re not giving away military secrets if you tell me the last time you ate.”

  The prisoner moved his feet and then licked his lips.

  “It’s all right, son,” Angriff said in his most fatherly tone. “Just tell me if you’re hungry.”

  “Four of us split a ground squirrel the day before yesterday,” he said. “Meat’s been hard to come by lately.”

  “I’ve never had an Arizona squirrel. What’s it taste like?”

  “Gamey, like rat, and real stringy. Rattlesnake’s better, but if you’re hungry enough it don’t matter.”

  “How’d you like some eggs, maybe some bacon? Does that sound good?”

  He nodded. Angriff thought he looked about twelve years old and softened his voice.

  “You tell me what I need to know, and I promise you a plate of eggs — and bacon if there’s any left from breakfast. And bread with butter. Any fruit they’ve got. Deal?”

  Again the man nodded.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Willis Keller.”

  “Who told you to kill me, Willis?”

  “Huh? We wasn’t trying to kill you. We wasn’t trying to kill anybody.”

  Angriff touched the crusty blood on his ear. “Two inches to the left and we’d both be dead now. That shot would have killed me and those men would have killed you.”

  “That was Marcus’s idea. Colonel Cranston just told us to pin you guys down for a while, create a diversion. He said not to shoot anybody.”

  “Did he? Interesting. Well, so far, Willis, you’re not in much trouble. At least, not with me, and I’m the only guy that matters. Nobody’s gotten hurt, I mean really hurt, so everything’s good. Now, tell me about those explosions.”

  Colonel Walling pushed through the courthouse doors at that moment, but Angriff stopped him with a raised hand. “Go on, son, tell me the rest.”

  “We’re hungry, starving. The first explosion opened up a food warehouse, and the other three were just to throw you off. You know, lead you in the wrong direction.”

  “Thank you, Willis. Your cooperation may save the lives of your buddies. Now, I need you to answer one last thing. I need you to tell me where you’re supposed to meet up after this is over. I want to offer everybody, including Colonel Cranston, the same deal I just made you.”

  At this, Willis broke eye contact and looked down.

  “You’ve trusted me this far, Willis. Help me to help your buddies.”

  After a moment, Willis nodded to himself. “Okay… there’s a clearing in the forest, about ten miles out. On one side is a rocky hill and there’s trees surrounding it. Inside the hill are some big caves. That’s where we keep our food, so it doesn’t spoil. When we’ve got food.”

  “Did you get that, B.F.?” Angriff turned to the colonel. “Get over there, try to stop Cranston, and make it clear we don’t want a fight. No shooting, except in self defense. If he’s already gone, order up a pair of Apaches to find this place Willis told us about… why are you still here? Go!”

  #

  Norbert Cranston hadn’t seen his men this energized in months. Although weak from a starvation diet, and loaded down with supplies, they moved along the game trail under the forest canopy like a well-fed troop. The discovery of a box of jerky had allowed him to reward them on the spot. Nobody was sure what kind of meat it was — goat was the likely source — and nobody cared. He let each man take two long strips to chew on the way back to camp and cautioned them against eating it too fast. A few did anyway and threw up, but after that the rest sucked on the meat instead of swallowing it right away.

  Silence followed them. A deep humus layer muffled footsteps with only the occasional snap of a branch to keep them alert. Little sunlight filtered through the dense shroud overhead. When they’d first fled into the forest the previous summer, game and small animals had scurried away through the underbrush. But not any more; nine months of intense hunting had depopulated th
e immediate area.

  Cranston was the last man in the long line snaking its way along the trail. After four hours, the exertion had slowed them to a crawl. Once the adrenaline had worn off, a dragging fatigue overcame them, as none had any fat left to burn for energy. Streaked with dirt and sweat, the men staggered, steps turning into dragging feet, and dragging feet becoming stumbles.

  But then a rock wall rose on their left and the men took heart. They were home, back at camp, and close to the caves. Within a few hundred yards they could put down their heavy loads, sit down, and eat some of their newly won food. They climbed up and down several small hills and Cranston lost sight of the column’s head. A lightening between the trees ahead marked the clearing. He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer of thanks.

  Tall pines ringed the clearing. Along with the rocky hill, sunlight only shone inside it for a few hours a day. As he emerged into the clearing, the afternoon sun had passed its zenith. Dimness had returned, although it was much brighter than in the forest. For a second he wondered why his men were all standing together with hands on their heads. Then something hard stuck into his back and an unseen voice said, “Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head.”

  As Cranston’s eyes adjusted to the increased light, he spotted soldiers around the edges of the clearing, rifles at the ready. His brain thought of several escape plans and rejected them all. They’d walked into a trap and were prisoners, and there was nothing they could do about it.

  Damn.

  #

  Chapter 5

  There is surely nothing quite so useless as doing with great efficiency what should not be done at all.

  Peter Drucker

  Prescott, AZ

  1243 hours, April 10

  Colonel Walling had been dreading one particular appointment all day. When the shooting started, he’d secretly hoped it would cancel the rest of Angriff’s tour of Prescott, but no such luck. Angriff wasn’t a man to let circumstances divert him if it could be helped. He had turned out to be a much more even-tempered man than legends within the Army made out, yet Nick the A did exist, and it was people like the next on his morning schedule that brought him into the light.