Empire by Orson Scott Card
He opened all the windows in the car. No reason to deal with flying glass shards if he needed to shoot.
There was an intersection ahead, with a light. He laid on the horn, jabbing at it to warn people he was coming through. He could see the van behind him lay back, trusting him to have his own wreck.
Instead Cole braked sharply and swerved off the road to the right. The car stopped abruptly and the airbag would have smacked him except he already had the door open and was leaning far to the left. He released the seatbelt and rolled out of the car.
The van was still going too fast to stop, despite squealing brakes and the fishtailing. Fine. He didn’t want the van. He wanted the sports car.
It was doing a better job of stopping. Cole didn’t want the windshield broken. But the passenger window was already open. There was a rifle pointing out of it. What an idiot, to bring a rifle to shoot out of a car window. Maybe these guys were amateurs after all.
Cole stood, feet planted, two hands on the pistol. He fired once and shattered the hand of the man who had been holding the rifle.
The driver’s door was already opening. Good. The moment the driver’s head showed above the roofline, Cole shot off the top of his head.
Then he ran back around the PT Cruiser, yanked open the back door, pulled out Rube’s M-240, and opened fire on the van, figuring that the bullets would easily go through the metal sides and the seats.
He scooped up Rube’s Mollie vest because it held the ammo for the M-240 and the pistol. Then he ran to the sports car. The guy he had hit in the hand was halfway out of the car, holding a pistol—he had a pistol all along, the idiot!—but it wasn’t his good hand and he hadn’t practiced with it that way. Cole shot him in the face so the bullet wouldn’t damage the car. He tossed the Mollie vest and the M-240 through the window and then ran around to the driver’s side. He could see now that the driver’s door of the van was open and there was a dead body draped down onto the asphalt.
He turned around as he went for the sports car’s door. He could see two humvees coming up the canyon at a high speed. So they had already called for backup.
The sports car was still running. He swerved out around the van just as the light changed and civilians started trying to turn into the lane he was driving in. He held the pistol in his left hand and showed the weapon out the window. They stopped honking at him. He ran the light and didn’t hit anybody.
Now he had some power going up the hill. The Humvees really weren’t built for this.
But they were undoubtedly calling somebody else to intercept him. How many military people were involved in this conspiracy?
No. No, these humvees were regular soldiers. Loyal guys who had got a call through military channels. No doubt they had described Cole as a dangerous assassin who just killed an officer, a civilian employee, and shot or killed multiple agents in a shootout in the Pentagon. There was no way—there would be no chance—for Cole to identify himself to them and wave the letter from the President. Besides, he didn’t have that letter. It was in Rube’s pocket. Probably about to be used as evidence to embarrass President Nielson.
The cellphone rang. It was Drew.
“I’m on Oregon,” Cole said immediately.
“Pass Western and then jog right on Wyndee, then left again. You’re back on Beach but it isn’t one-way. Turn left on the East-West Highway.”
“I’m not in the PT Cruiser anymore,” said Cole. “I’m now in a Corvette C6, black. I’ve got an M-240 and a pistol.”
“Good,” said Drew. “I was afraid you didn’t know how to Rambo this.”
“The point is I’ve got some speed now.”
“Then when East-West splits, stay right and then turn right on Connecticut. It’s the first big street. One more light and it cloverleafs onto the Beltway heading west, toward Virginia. If you see the Mormon temple you went the wrong damn way.”
“I don’t think I should try to get to that Borders.”
“No, no. You can’t stay on the Beltway long. It’s going to be clogging up pretty bad and now that you’ve got speed, you want lonely side roads. But do you still want to meet up with us, or get up to Gettysburg?”
“I don’t think I’ll make it to Gettysburg without help,” said Cole. “They’ve called in the Army against me now.”
“Some of the roads are one-way the wrong way in the morning,” said Drew. “Best route—take the MacArthur Road exit. Heading west. It curves around past the Great Falls Park and then it joins River Road, which is Maryland 190.”
“You know these roads that well?”
“I’m looking at Google Maps on my laptop, what do you think? But I’ve driven all these roads. Stay on 190 a long way. Till you have to turn right onto Edwards Ferry Road, and stay on that up to 107. By then we should have Babe with you, he lives out that way. He’ll guide you the rest of the way to a rendezvous on the Maryland side of the Leesburg bridge.”
“If you think I memorized this—”
“Call me as often as you want. But I’m hanging up now to go get in my car. No more laptop. Sorry.”
By now Cole was doing the ramp up to 495. Whereupon he found himself stopped cold behind traffic waiting to merge, as the humvees came up behind him. There were a couple of cars between them and him, but these guys weren’t going to stay in their lane or even in their vehicles.
Cole debated between getting out and commandeering somebody else’s car, or betting on the gods of traffic to help him. He could imagine himself stuck with an M-240 on the side of the road, unable to shoot without hitting civilians, choosing between surrendering or running into the nice little jogging park where snipers could take him out at leisure.
The traffic gods came through. The car ahead of him moved. A couple of aggressive Maryland drivers fudged their way into traffic and things broke free. He checked the rearview mirror and saw that the first humvee left two of its guys behind and the second one didn’t stop for them. They looked pissed off. That’s what you get for leaving your transportation without first ascertaining the enemy’s intentions and capabilities.
Except he was the enemy, and they were the U.S. Army.
Now he was moving with traffic, driving the Corvette into gaps so small that other drivers not only honked at him, it looked like they wanted to ram him. But he didn’t show the pistol again. No reason to cause extra panic. He’d just look like an asshole in a sports car, which was exactly what people expected anyway. A normal day of driving in Maryland.
Now he had time to make another call. The one he hated worst. But he had to make it, not just because Cecily had a right to know, but because he needed her to get Nielson to help him from the other end. Call off this chase if he could.
He knew her cell number—he had memorized it, of course—and she answered on the first ring.
“Cecily,” said Cole. “This is the worst call you’ll ever receive in your life, but I need help desperately. So get near someone so they can take over this call if you can’t continue it.”
“He’s dead,” said Cecily.
“DeeNee shot him and he’s dead. There is no hope that he survived.”
“DeeNee . . .”
“She was working for them. She turned over the plans to the terrorists. Cecily, are you still with me? I’m being pursued by regular Army troops. I need the President to call them off. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she said. “Call off pursuit.”
“I’m in a stolen black Corvette C6. The two humvees following me are to let me go and not follow me. No other pursuit is to be permitted. Do you have that?”
“I do.”
“I’m sorry, Cecily. You know I’d have taken the bullet for him if I could have.”
“Do you have the PDA?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then get back here alive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m at the President’s door. Stay on the line if you can.” He heard talking.
Then Nielson was
“Yes, sir. Major Malich is dead. The secretary set up a trap and she pulled the trigger on him herself. After I left the Pentagon I killed the first wave of pursuers—they were definitely rebels. But the guys chasing me now are regular Army. They’ve undoubtedly been told lies about who I am and what happened in the Pentagon.”
“I’ll take care of it, son,” said Nielson. “That’s what Presidents are for.”
The connection broke. Cole ended his side of the call.
He had to give the humvee drivers credit. They did a good job of keeping in hot pursuit through traffic. Once he got on the open road, he could open up the Corvette and leave them in the dust.
Cole had no idea how long it would take Nielson to call off the chase. It would be so stupid to get killed—or to kill somebody else—during these minutes waiting for the word to filter down. Battle of New Orleans all over again.
MacArthur Road was packed coming toward him, but there was nobody going his direction. The trouble was, if he did overtake somebody, there was no way to pass on the left with all those cars. And, sure enough, he came up behind a farmer’s stake truck and watched the humvees come up behind him.
But these guys didn’t do any ramming. They stayed behind him, but didn’t move in. Maybe they were on the radio right now.
Drew called. “Where are you?”
“MacArthur. Just past where Clara Barton splits off, but I’m stuck behind a farm truck. I think President Nielson might be getting the order down the line for them to leave me alone.”
“Stay on the line and tell me if they back off. We can change your route, then. No reason to go to Leesburg if you aren’t being pursued.”
The humvees weren’t tailgating him now, but they hadn’t given up, either. “He was supposed to tell them not to follow me, but—”
The second humvee blew up.
“Somebody’s shooting at the humvees,” Cole shouted into the phone.
The humvee right behind him was swerving, taking evasive action. What was following it?
Cole saw a break in the oncoming traffic. Not enough of one for any sane person to pass, but whatever was shooting at the humvees probably just wanted them out of the way so they could get to Cole. He swung out and started around the farm truck as the remaining humvee also burst into flames and blew up.
The driver of the farm truck could see what was happening and even if he didn’t understand the explosions, he did understand being passed by a madman. He pulled hard to the right. Meanwhile the oncoming cars slammed on their brakes and swung right. Cole barely made it through. Then he floored it.
At first the other drivers were cursing him. Then they saw what was following Cole now. About a dozen one-man hovercrafts, looking like rocket-powered motorcycles, and at least two of them had anti-tank weapons mounted on the housing. They didn’t actually have to overtake him. Even a Corvette C6 can’t outspeed a rocket.
Fortunately, the road started curving, and there were cars trying to join the inbound traffic. Cole had to drive for his life, trying not to hit anybody while staying on a road that wasn’t exactly designed for ninety miles per hour. At least there weren’t any joggers. Oh, wait. Yes there were.
Apparently the greenery to the left was part of the Great Falls Park.
“Drew,” said Cole into the phone. “The humvees are gone. Killed. They’ve got hovercycles with what looks like anti-tank weapons. MacArthur is curvy enough they can’t get off a shot yet, but I’ve got to know what—”
“Look,” said Drew, “this is real bad. If you stay on MacArthur it dead-ends in the park. You have to turn right on Falls Road to stay on track. And it runs straight as an arrow away from the park.”
“These guys may be bastards, but they’re still Americans and I don’t think they want to hit civilians. Maybe they’ll—”
“Bullshit,” said Drew. “They’ll kill anybody they want and blame it on you. And they’ll mean it, too, because it’s your fault for getting away.”
“So what do I do?”
“Babe is heading toward you. I’m with Cat now, and he’s calling him to tell him to hurry.”
“Only if he’s armed to deal with anti-tank weapons. Here’s the turn for Falls Road. If I can make this turn without slowing down enough for them to blow me up . . .”
He made the turn. And immediately regretted it. Heading straight toward him, filling Falls Road from one side to the other, were six of the two-legged mechanicals they had fought in New York City yesterday.
“They’ve got mechs ahead of me,” said Cole. Then he pocketed the phone and made a U-turn going way too fast.
In the movies these always looked cool. In real life, cars usually flipped and rolled. The Corvette acted like it was definitely considering the flip-and-roll. But American engineering was good enough this time that Cole didn’t end up smeared on the asphalt.
Now he was headed straight back at the cycles, which were just rounding the turn from MacArthur. Cole deliberately wove back and forth so nobody could aim at him properly. Instead, they swung off the pavement. Didn’t bother them at all. Hovercycles didn’t need a paved surface. They only slowed down so they could turn around and follow him.
When he got to the MacArthur turnoff, he could have turned left, but soon enough he would run into the inbound traffic and not only would he probably die, several civilians would likely die with him.
Besides, he was getting a glimmer of another plan. A stupid, dangerous one. But that seemed to be the kind that was needed right now.
This was Great Falls Park. He remembered seeing it from the Virginia side. From the observation points on that side, he could see an observation point on the Maryland side. He picked up the phone as he went with all deliberate speed into the park.
“Drew, I’m back on MacArthur heading into the park.”
“It’s a dead end!”
“I’m going to cross the river at the park.”
“You can’t cross the river!”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
“People drown there. Not just some of them. Everybody who tries to hop the rocks.”
“But I’m Ranger trained,” said Cole.
“I don’t care if you’re a damned SEAL,” said Drew.
“I’m a dead man if I stay in this car and on those roads,” said Cole. “So this is my best chance.”
“Then your chances suck, man.”
“I’ll deal with the river if you guys can lay down suppressing fire.”
“Damn. It’ll cost five bucks a car to get into the park.”
“Shut up,” said Cole. He ended the call and concentrated on driving.
The park entry booth loomed ahead. There was a car at the booth chatting up the ranger. Cole approached at top speed. The ranger saw him coming and ran out of the booth, yelling for him to stop. Cole didn’t. He went around the booth on the other side. He didn’t need the rearview mirror to know that the ranger was on the phone instantly, calling for whatever backup rangers called for. That was good. Because in a moment he would use that phone connection to tell whoever it was about mechs and hovercycles blowing through in hot pursuit.
For a crazy moment he thought about those two soldiers who had been left beside the Connecticut Avenue freeway onramp. That was the luckiest move of their lives, getting out of that humvee.
Cole didn’t worry about parking nicely. He did take the Mollie vest and the M-240 because even though it was useless against the mechs, it would do fine against anybody who got out of a hovercycle.
He headed for the woods, at first on the path, but soon getting off it. He didn’t want to get trapped at the observation point. And he wanted to improve his odds a little.
Sure enough, the bad guys tried to stay on their hovercycles along the path to the observation point. Only when they found he wasn’t there did they stop, settle down to the ground, and get out. The mechs were probably still lumbering up the road. So it was Cole, his M-240, and now, b
The trouble is that a machine gun is best against massed troops. It isn’t much of a tool for taking guys out one by one. And if he got close enough to use a pistol, they’d overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers.
But for the moment, as they were still getting out of their hovercycles, they were massed enough. Cole set up the weapon and let fly. Short bursts, to husband his ammo, because there wasn’t much.
He was pretty sure he put four of them down. Maybe disabled another. But from this moment on, the M-240 was useless. He had to get to the river, where sniper fire from Reuben’s jeesh would be his only protection while he negotiated the river.
Getting to the edge of the cliff wasn’t bad. Getting down the cliff face wasn’t all that hard. And he really had tried to pick the point with the narrowest gap over the rushing water of the falls. From above, it didn’t look too bad. From here, it looked impossible. Because the boulders didn’t conveniently line up with two flat surfaces. Instead, they were rounded and jagged and even though he could easily make the jump, there was nothing he could be sure of gripping on the other side. So easy—so likely—to slide off into the water and get carried down the rapids, the pieces of his body eventually assembling in the smooth water downstream.
He heard the slap-plunk-whine of sniper fire from the Virginia side. The guys had gotten there, even at five bucks a car.
But that didn’t guarantee that somebody on the Maryland side couldn’t get off a round at him while he was exposed on the rock.
A quick prayer. And then a little aside to Rube: I don’t know if they give angel status that fast, but if you can, look out for me here. I’ve got your PDA and Cecily needs it.
Nothing for it but a run and a leap. So he ran. And he leapt.
And even though he scrabbled a little on the rock, he was solidly on and there was nothing for it but to make a shorter leap and then one that was more like a step and now he was on the big center island.