The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [164]
Partway down the hallway, he stopped before a door, reached for the handle, and opened it, standing aside.
A long line of military trucks snaked to a stop before the roadblock at the confluence of Pennsylvania and Independence Avenues.
Edward O’Keefe, the Capitol sergeant at arms, rested both hands on the back of the swivel chair occupied by Sergeant Thomas, the shift officer at the Capitol Security Center, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen on the desk.
“Zoom in,” he said.
The screen filled with the cabin of the first truck and the insignia stenciled on the door: Marine Corps. What are they doing here? A sergeant appeared around the front of the vehicle to hand over a sheet of paper to the Capitol security platoon leader. The security officer seemed to scan the page, then shook his head.
O’Keefe’s radio beeped. He tapped his ear set. “O’Keefe.”
“General Erlenmeyer to see you, sir.”
“Where?” O’Keefe zeroed in on the screen again. His security officer and the Marine sergeant continued to argue.
“Outside the door, sir.”
O’Keefe turned to look at the solid steel door protecting the control center.
“Sir, another military convoy has been halted at Maryland and Second.”
He spoke into the microphone clipped to the neck of his tunic. “Is the general alone?” A stupid question, since generals never went alone anywhere.
“Two aides, sir. A colonel and a major. All security-cleared.”
O’Keefe bit his lower lip. He couldn’t leave a four-star general standing by the door. Other security officers had stopped scanning the scores of screens at their stations and were looking at him.
“Open the door,” he said to no one in particular as he stepped forward.
After a muted thud, the thick door swung on its diamond-tipped hinges to frame General Erlenmeyer, flanked by two officers in full uniform.
O’Keefe stood at attention and drew a rigid arm to his brow. “General …”
The security officers stood at attention by their stations.
Erlenmeyer looked down his patrician nose at O’Keefe. “Colonel, I am relieving you of your duties. Please stand aside.”
Time seemed to slow. Sergeant Thomas pushed his chair back and was reaching for his regulation sidearm when the colonel accompanying Erlenmeyer leaped forward, slapped a huge hand on Thomas’s crotch, and rammed a pistol in his neck. O’Keefe turned to the general, to stare into the black hole of a Smith & Wesson an inch away from his nose.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear the order, Colonel. Witnessed by Colonel Robinson and Major Freedman, you’ve been relieved of your duties. I will construe any further move as rebellion and a threat and will blow your brains out. The same applies to your men.” Erlenmeyer’s voice remained conversational and even. “Freedman.” He spoke to the major at his side. “Show the colonel our presidential orders.”
A collective sharp intake of breath followed as the men reacted to the statement.
O’Keefe scanned the sheet of paper held in midair by the major, his mind in turmoil. First Odelle Marino and now the army. What’s going on?
Freedman folded the paper and, with swift movements, removed O’Keefe’s sidearm, flicked the safety catch, and checked the weapon. When he noticed there was no bullet up the spout, he snapped the action to load it and shook his head. “Slipshod.”
Colonel Robinson nodded to Thomas’s screen. “Order your sentries to let our vehicles through.”
Pain flickered on Thomas’s face as his eyes swiveled downward to the paw grinding his groin.
O’Keefe made to turn around, but Freedman rammed his weapon in his side.
“You heard the colonel,” Erlenmeyer said. “That’s a direct order.”
Robinson removed his hand.
Thomas leaned over his console and spoke into a microphone. On the screen, the security officer at the roadblock froze. Thomas repeated the order, enunciating each word with care. After a few seconds, an obviously confused officer stood aside and the barriers dotting the ground started to lower.
“Now the convoy at Maryland and Second,” Robinson