Last Gasp

shouldered open by a big man in a black vinyl hat and a gray suit edged with a thin pink stripe. The two collided with considerable force. Instinctively the big man raised his gloved hand to take the brunt of the collision but was still thrown back by the impact, the door crashing against the wall, and a sharp metallic crack, as the handle smashed into the tiles, reverberated around the mirrored, tiled room.

Instantly the young Asian recovered and barged past and was gone, leaving Sturges with his back to the open door, momentarily stunned.

As Chase followed, his face contorted with an almost manic desperation, Sturges saw his chance. This is it, my friend. And as Chase tried to push through he brought up the glove with its stiffened fingers, his own fingers clutching the syringe inside, and jabbed it against the victim's upper arm in a gesture that to an onlooker must have appeared as nothing more than a defensive reaction. Exerting the full pressure of his thumb on the plunger, Sturges wondered why it wasn't moving-- stuck, or what? Inexplicably the plunger had been rammed home already. He couldn't believe it. Then he saw the tiny hole in the index finger of the glove where the needle should have been.

After the brief hindrance of the man at the door--he'd registered only a black-gloved hand and chunky gold jewelry on a hairy wrist-- Chase raced for the escalator, scattering a knot of people who got in his way.

Damn! The bastard was already halfway down. Little wonder--for using the heavy briefcase like a scythe to clear a path he was laying waste to the downward escalator, leaving women screaming, people hanging on to the moving rubber hand support, and bodies sprawled on the serrated metal treads.

For Chase it was the old nightmare of being hampered and obstructed, unable to make headway, and with it came the sick despair of knowing he was in real and actual danger of losing his notebooks and tapes, two months of expensive, irreplaceable research, all gone because of a single stupid careless moment. Once the Asian reached the lower level he wouldn't have a cat in hell's chance of catching him.

An elderly man who'd received a nasty clout was swaying in the middle of the escalator, waving his hands feebly like someone struck blind. He grabbed hold of Chase's jacket as he wormed past and Chase lost precious seconds in having to turn and disengage the amazingly strong grip before plunging recklessly on, leaping over bodies.

Even now the Asian was only strides away from the bottom of the escalator and almost certain escape in the milling crowd.

In those last few strides, however, something odd happened.

The Asian seemed to falter and his legs went rubbery as if drunk. He stumbled on, feet climbing an invisible hill in slow motion, his free hand raking the air like a swimmer battling against a fierce current. Then his legs gave way altogether and he fell headfirst with a hollow clunk, carried forward by his own momentum and sliding facedown across the scuffed marble floor of the transit lounge.

Panting heavily, Chase went for his first priority, the briefcase, which had landed on its side several feet away. He then knelt down by the motionless young man and was about to turn him over when a harsh, commanding voice rang out. 'Hold it there! Don't move!'

An airport security guard in peaked cap and shiny blue uniform was standing above him, an automatic in his meaty fist. The crowd surged around curiously, agog at the spectacle; this was better than television.

'My briefcase,' Chase said breathlessly, patting it as if to corroborate his story. 'This man stole it.' There was a look in the guard's eye that made Chase feel as if he were the guilty party.

'All right, take it easy now.' The guard, a burly fellow in his fifties, crouched down on one knee. When he turned the young Asian over his look became positively suspicious. Sticking out of the Asian's T-shirt, just below the left collarbone, was the broken end of a hypodermic needle, still seeping pinkish fluid.

The guard looked at Chase warily. 'You made damn sure he didn't get far. What are you, a doctor or something?' He pressed three fingers to the side of the Asian's neck, feeling for his pulse.

Chase blinked. 'Wait a minute, that wasn't me. I only ... is he dead?' Chase asked, hollow-eyed, as the guard straightened up. The Asian's sallow complexion had turned gray. His lips were tinged with blue.

Watching Chase closely the guard undipped a transceiver from his breast pocket, thumbed a button, and spoke into the grille. 'Control, this is blue nine-three. We have a homicide in the transit lounge.' The barrel of the automatic was pointing at the middle of Chase's chest. 'Suspect apprehended. Get the rush squad here right away.'

'Officer, you've got this all wrong. You can't hold me, I've got a plane to catch in'--he looked at his watch--'eight minutes. This man is a thief, he stole my briefcase, this bloody thing here!'

The guard wagged his head. 'What kind of score do you think this is, fella--I find you next to a dead man and you just take your flight as if nothing had happened?'

'It leaves in eight minutes!'

'Right, it leaves in eight minutes without you. Now just take it easy.'

Chase sagged helplessly. What a ludicrous situation to have become embroiled in, and all for the sake of a piss. It was going to take hours to explain and sort out a simple sequence of events. Simple, that was, except for the broken needle protruding from the Asian's chest. What was he, an addict? Impaled himself on his own hypodermic? No, Chase recalled, that wasn't how it had happened . . . he'd definitely seen the Asian stagger before the fall. Then how . . . ? It didn't make sense.

Knowing it was futile, he tried one more time.

'Officer, there are people up there in the men's room who saw everything that happened. All you have to do is ask one of them--' He turned and pointed up the escalator and his arm remained frozen in midair. He'd seen, for just a moment, the big man in the black vinyl hat before he'd ducked out of sight.

A random and unconnected scattering of thoughts coalesced and glowed like neon in Chase's brain. The Asian had encountered no one except the big man in the black vinyl hat. The big man had a camera around his neck. He was also wearing a heavy gold bracelet on his hairy wrist. A memory stirred, but one he couldn't place, of gold jewelry on a hairy wrist.

Chase lowered his arm and waited silently while the crowd flowed around the three participants in the little drama. He stood frowning, trying to make connections, and he was still trying when the other security guards arrived and led him away at the point of a gun.

13

It was a table of death's-heads. Beamed straight down from recessed spotlights in the ceiling, the light bounced off the papers spread across the horseshoe-shaped table, with President Munro at its apex, and lit everyone from above and below.

Foreheads gleamed like bone, eye sockets were black and cavernous, chins and jowls jutted: a tableau of waxwork effigies.

Directly in front of the president, through the glass wall, holographic displays hovered ghostlike in the middle of the darkened chamber. Beneath them sat controllers and military personnel at hooded consoles, while officers stood in the shadowy background in small groups.

Along the table to the president's left, General Beaver, one of the three Joint Chiefs present, said, 'Satellite photoreconnaissance confirms the intelligence picture, sir. Taken together, I should say we have a good probability rating, in the high seventies.'

'That still leaves a better than twenty percent shortfall, General.'

'With all respect, sir, it can only be conclusive when the Soviets actually implement the scheme,' General Stafford pointed out.

August, 9, 1999. The president's famous vote-winning smile was absent today at this meeting ninety feet underground in the concrete, steel and lead-lined installation known as the Prime Situation Center. Connected to the White House by a two-mile tunnel that ran under the Potomac River, the PSC was located directly beneath Arlington National Cemetery. Another tunnel, also with an electric rail shuttle, linked it to the Pentagon, a mile to the east.

General Smith, the army chief, voiced the opinion that they were in danger of losing credibility. 'If somebody's going to act, it ought to be us,' he argued. 'Our countermeasures are more than adequate and at operational status. Isn't that so, Colonel Madden?'

Madden nodded, and for the benefit of the tape added, 'That's correct, General.'

'Christ, George, this isn't the old nuclear scenario of a preemptive strike,' said General Stafford. 'Nobody comes out of this one looking good and smelling sweet. We all go down the goddam drain together!'