Conductivity and all that-”
“Okay, you’re another reporter for the
“That’s a good question,” I replied, “but let’s hear your side of it first. How come you tried to IM something to John but got me instead?”
She blinked a few times, not quite comprehending. “Sorry? I don’t understand what you’re-”
“Look,” I said, letting out my breath, “let’s try to get things straight. My PT told me about ten minutes ago that I had a message. It was addressed to John but somehow got sent to me instead, and it told me … or him, whatever … to meet somebody right here at eight o’clock. Now, since you’re obviously that somebody-”
“Hey, wait a minute,” she interrupted. “You got this message just ten minutes ago?”
“Yeah, just about that-”
I was beginning to get fed up with this. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Who’s counting? The point is-”
A couple of teenagers, ripped to the tits on something they had bought off the street, staggered through the gate and jostled me aside. I nearly fell against the woman; she stepped out of my way, then grabbed my jacket and pushed me behind a column.
“The point is, Mr. Rosen,” she said quietly, staring me straight in the eye, “I didn’t send any IMs today, but I received e-mail from John Tiernan this afternoon, telling me to meet him here at eight. Now I’m here, but I instead find you. Now you tell me: where’s your buddy?”
The conversation was getting nowhere very quickly. “Look,” I said, taking off my cap for a moment to wipe soaked hair out of my eyes, “you’re just going to have trust me on this, okay? John ain’t here. If he was, I’d know it. And if you didn’t send that IM to me-”
“If John didn’t send e-mail to me …” Her voice trailed off, and in that instant I caught a glimpse of fear in her dark eyes.
No, not just fear: absolute horror, the blank, slack-jawed expression of someone who has just gazed over the edge of the abyss and seen monsters lurking in its depths.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s started …”
It was then that I heard the helicopters.
At first, there was nothing except the background rumble of the crowd in the amphitheater below us, mixing with the subtle hiss of the rain and the not-so-subtle screech of electric guitars from the stage … and then there came a low droning from the dark sky above us, quickly rising in volume, and I looked up just in time to see the first chopper as it came in.
The helicopter was an MH-6 Night Hawk, a fast-moving little gunship designed for hit-and-run night missions over the Mediterranean. Something of an antique, really, but still good enough for ass-kicking in the U.S.A.; with its silenced engine and rotors, it wasn’t noticed by anyone in the Muny until it was right over the amphitheater, coming in low over the walls like a bat.
I caught a fleeting glimpse of the two men seated within its bubble canopy, the letters ERA stenciled across its matte black fuselage; then light flashed from its outrigger nacelles as two slender canisters were launched over the crowd toward the stage. The rock band dropped their instruments and pretended to be paint as the RPGs smashed through the heavy wood backdrops behind them, breaking open to spew dense pale smoke across the platform.
The Night Hawk banked sharply to the right, its slender tail fishtailing around as the chopper braked to hover above the amphitheater, its prop wash forcing the milky white fog off the stage and across the orchestra pit into the front rows. I caught the unmistakable pepper scent of tear gas, but many of the squatters, thinking they were only smoke bombs, didn’t flee immediately, even when the first few who had been caught by the gas began to choke and gag.
That’s the mistake everyone makes about tear gas; its innocuous name makes it sound like something that will only make you a little weepy. Few people are aware of the painful blindness it causes when the hellish stuff gets in your eyes, how much you choke when you inhale it. Then, it’s pure evil.
The fog was billowing toward us even as the squatters, now realizing the danger, began to stampede toward the rear entrance. People all around us clawed at one another, trying to get out of the amphitheater, as they were caught in the throes of gas-attack panic.
“Get out of here!” I grabbed the woman’s hand and dragged her toward the gate. “Move it! Move it!”
We shoved and hauled our way through the mob until we managed to squeeze through the jammed gate. Still clutching her hand, I turned to make a getaway through the parking lot, only to find that we were far from being out of danger.
There was more rotor noise from above, much louder than the MH-6, as gale-force winds abruptly whipped through the parking lot, tearing at the tents and plastic tarps, sending garbage flying in every direction, overturning stolen shopping carts, causing the flames of the trash-can fires to dance crazily. I skidded to a stop and looked up to see a giant shape descending upon us, red and blue lights flashing against the darkness, searchlights lancing through the rain like a UFO coming in for a touchdown.
Flying saucer, no; V-22 Osprey, yes. The big, twin-prop VTOL was landing right outside the Muny, and if that was Elvis I spotted through one of its oval portholes, wearing riot gear and slapping a magazine into his Hecker amp; Koch assault rifle, then the King and I needed to have a serious discussion about his new career.
It was a full-blown ERA raid, and I felt like an idiot for not having seen it coming. Members of the city council had been squawking lately about “taking Forest Park back from the squatters,” and never mind that it had been their idea in the first place to relocate nearly seventy-five thousand homeless people to a tent city in the park. A crackdown had been threatened for several weeks now, and squatters trespassing on the Muny had been the last straw. Steve Estes, the council member whose political ambitions were only slightly outweighed by his ego, was making good on his rhetoric.
No time to ponder local politics now. More Ospreys were arriving. The first one was already on the ground, its rear door cranking down to let out a squad of ERA troopers. The air stank of tear gas; people were rushing around on either side of us, threatening to trample us as they fled from the soldiers. Already I could hear screams from the area closest to the landing site of the first Osprey and the hollow
Escape through the parking lot was out of the question; already I could hear the engine roar of LAV-25 Piranhas approaching from the roadway on the other side of the hill, their multiple tires mowing down the makeshift barricades squatters had thrown up around the Muny. In a few minutes we’d be nailed by tear gas, water cannons, webs, or rubber bullets.
A steep, wooded embankment lay to the right of the amphitheater. “That way!” I yelled to the woman. “Down the hill!”
“No!” she shouted, yanking her hand free from mine. “I gotta go somewhere!”
“You’ll-”
“Shaddup! Listen to me!” She grabbed my shoulders and shouted in my face. “Tell Tiernan-”
Full-auto gunfire from behind us. More screams. I couldn’t tell whether the troopers were firing live rounds, and I wasn’t in the mood for sticking around to find out. The woman glanced over her shoulder, then her eyes snapped back to me again.
“Tell Tiernan to meet me at Clancy’s on Geyer Street!” she yelled. “Tomorrow at eight! Tell him not to trust any other messages he gets! You got that?”
“Who are you?” I shouted back at her. “What the hell’s going on?”
For the briefest moment she seemed uncertain, as if wanting to tell me everything in the middle of a full- scale riot and yet unable to trust her own instincts. Then she pulled me closer until her lips touched my ear.
“Ruby fulcrum,” she whispered.
“Ruby
“Ruby fulcrum!” she repeated, louder and more urgently now. “Tiernan will know what I mean. Remember, Clancy’s at eight.” She shoved me away. “Now get out of here!”
Then she was gone, turning around to dash into the panic-stricken mob, disappearing into the night as suddenly as she had appeared. I caught a final glimpse of the woman as her jacket hood fell back, exposing a few hints of gray in her short-cropped hair.
