A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [110]
“He has a rat’s nest full of them. We have been able to make this exclusively a state of Colorado caper. Actually, only six people know anything about the target, one of them my wife. Time will not allow us to deal with the lawyers. If I have to negotiate with them, we’ll probably be too late to apprehend the cargo, follow me?”
“Yes.”
“It will take the media months, if ever, to figure out how we pulled it off. And in that time we will fade into thin air.”
A scent of procrastination seemed to flow from Appleton’s phone. Quinn could hear the man breathing, weighing. Was it fair for the governor to use the federal system on an operation from which they had been bypassed?
Undoubtedly, Appleton thought, O’Connell had gotten tips along the line from the FBI or ATF. Appleton was about to decline when the big picture of a great hero, Gunner Quinn O’Connell, loomed before him. After all, what the hell was O’Connell doing? Putting his ass on the line in the service of the people. On the other hand, the rancor between federal agencies would ensure a media convulsion. Why the hell does he have to give me that gyrene shit?
“What do you need?” Appleton said at last.
“I want to speak, one to one, with a prisoner on a secure line.”
“Oh, hell, we do much worse,” Appleton sighed. “Bury my name, for God’s sake.”
“Hey,” Quinn said, “we’re on death-before-dis-honor vows here. Your name will not emerge from this end.”
“Who do you want to speak to, and what facility is he in?”
“Herman Hooper, aka Hoop Hooper, Atlanta Penitentiary. Former leader of the Wisconsin militia. Bundle of charges. He’s pleaded guilty to get a reduced sentence, which has been lowered to twenty years from forty.”
“I’m on it,” Appleton said.
“And, George, we are desperate for time.”
Senator Dick Darling closed the morning’s session by pointing his finger toward Washington and shouting “thou shalt nots.” Hall Carleton was elected president of AMERIGUN, by acclamation, unopposed.
Carleton smiled so broadly his teeth shone clear to the last row as he and the senator held up each other’s arm in victory.
King Porter announced the afternoon’s business and an evening fare of barbecue and folk dancing.
Reb Butterworth spirited fifty guardsmen and troopers into Elway Stadium, one truck at a time. He was positive he had not raised alarm or suspicion.
The troops were housed in a wide corridor between the field seats and the balcony. Bedrolls and boxed rations were the order.
They would remain fully clothed and could reach their trucks in two minutes, with another four minutes bringing them to the convention center.
A report from Yancey Hawke. He had established his triangle, three positions that could converge at an instant’s notice. Each apex had some fifteen troopers and guardsmen all in secluded areas.
“Hi, Rae, it’s Daddy. You’re all in the mansion okay?”
“There seem to be twenty guards outside. Are we going to need them?”
“I hope not.”
Hours of midday dragged by, the longest of their lives. A pair of half-eaten pastrami sandwiches died on Dawn’s desk. Quinn was knotted up. He could barely get his teeth unclenched to drink his Coke. Dawn had been staring at the empty monitor. Tears welled in her eyes.
“We’ve been stiffed,” she said. “It’s four o’clock.”
“One more half hour,” he mumbled.
“You’ve been saying that since noon.”
“Never mind,” Dawn said to herself. “Why argue the point now? The governor had played it skillfully and bravely, but neither skill nor courage was the game. And no one has ever figured out how to stop time.”
Both of them clicked on as the scramble phone buzzed. Dawn nodded to Quinn. He lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” Quinn said.
Dawn put a headset on to listen.
“Hello,” the other end said. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Governor Quinn O’Connell, Marine Gunner O’Connell.”
“Tell me, Governor, who was your commander at the Urbakkan raid?”
“Major General Jeremiah Duncan.”
“And he won the Congressional Medal?”
“Yes, as a fighter pilot in World War Two. He received a posthumous Navy Cross