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The guardsman pulled out the ramp at the back of the truck and walked up, started untying the ropes that were holding the load in place.
And Cole remembered Charlie O’Brien, the guardsman at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel. That had been so much easier, soldier to soldier. They each had respect for what the other one was doing.
“You know,” said Cole, “it’s not like Washington is at war with the rest of the United States.”
“I know,” said the guardsman. A rope end dropped down across Cole’s shoulders. “Sorry.”
“It was the President and Vice President and Secretary of Defense of the whole United States that got murdered on Friday the Thirteenth. No matter what your politics were.”
“I know that, too,” said the guardsman.
“So . . . what if the guys who set the whole thing up—the assassinations—fed the information to the terrorists and then invaded New York. What if the U.S. Army had hard information that those guys were inside the state of Washington? What do you think they’d do?”
The guardsman stopped what he was doing. “I think they’d go in and get them.”
“But the state of Washington says they aren’t letting any military in. Which means, if the bad guys are already in the state, the only people being kept out are the good guys. Assuming that you think the assassins are the bad guys.”
“And the U.S. Army doesn’t want to launch a big invasion,” said the guardsman. “They just want something quiet. Something . . . Special Ops.”
“Like that,” said Cole.
The guardsman stood there awhile. “It’d make a difference, though, if those guys were gonna start shooting at guys like me.”
“They’d be crazy to do that, wouldn’t they? I mean, you’re part of the U.S. Army, aren’t you? What is this, a civil war?”
“I hope to God not,” said the guardsman. “We’d get creamed.”
“Nobody’s going to be shooting at the Washington National Guard, I’d bet my life on that.”
“Yeah, but can I bet my life on it?”
The question hung there.
“Man, think about it,” said Cole. “If Special Ops sent a guy in, and he wanted you dead, you think you wouldn’t be dead already?”
The guardsman’s hand strayed to his sidearm. But then his hand went on. To reach for the rope end. Cole got it and handed it to him.
The guardsman started retying the knot.
“Thanks,” said Cole.
“All that bullshit you told me, it was pretty good,” said the guardsman. “But I saw you reconnoitering up there. I knew what I was looking at.”
“And you made sure you were alone when you inspected my truck.”
“Had to know how things were,” said the guardsman. “But there was a guy on the news a month ago. He said, If somebody tells you
to point your gun at a guy just doing his job, then you point it at the guy gave the order.”
Cole felt himself blushing. Damn. Had the guy recognized him? A month later? With a stubbly beard and darker hair and in civilian clothes? Or did it just happen that Cole’s words on O’Reilly made an impression that stuck with the guy, and he didn’t recognize him now at all?
“Glad you watched that program,” said Cole.
The knot was tied.
“Long way to go?” said the guardsman. “I’m betting it isn’t downtown Pasco.”
“A little farther than that,” said Cole.
