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“We don’t have to win the war,” said the rebel. “We just have to keep you guys killing people till public opinion turns completely against you.”
“Same strategy as Al Qaeda,” said Cole.
“We’re not terrorists, you are.”
“Since you’re terrified and I’m not, I suppose you’re right,” said Cole. He worked his knife into one of the spaces between floor planks, slicing away bits of wood to make a gap wide enough for the crowbar. “You’re guilty of treason, but maybe they’ll let you off because we broke your arms. Military brutality and all that.”
“I’m not the traitor, you are.”
“I’m a sworn soldier of the United States of America, performing my duties according to orders,” said Cole. “You’re a hired goon of Aldo Verus, functioning as his private army in order to subvert the United States. Besides, you guys are the ones who killed the President.”
“Not my President,” said the rebel.
“That’s my point,” said Cole. “He was President of the United States, but he wasn’t your President. What does that make you?”
“We didn’t have anything to do with killing him. Terrorists did that.”
“It was your guys who stole the plans the terrorists used.”
“No way,” said the rebel. “It was your guys who wrote those plans.”
Cole couldn’t deny that. “Only so we could plan to counter them.”
“And yet,” said the rebel, “you hadn’t gotten around to countering them, had you?”
“And when the President died, you guys were right ready to move.”
“We’ve been ready for months,” said the rebel.
“Waiting for Friday the Thirteenth.”
“Waiting for a right-wing coup to give us an excuse,” said the rebel. “We never thought that asshole in the White House would be dead.”
Cole set his anger aside and thought about what he’d said. Was this just the line they fed their own troops? Or was it possible that Aldo Verus hadn’t arranged the assassinations? Could it be that he was waiting for General Alton to get his phony coup under way, and they only seized on Friday the Thirteenth as an opportunity after the fact?
The evidence in Rube’s PDA only dealt with his clandestine work for Phillips in the White House, helping move Verus’s ordnance
around the country. It had nothing to do with the plans that were leaked to the terrorists.
DeeNee, though. Wasn’t she the link proving that they were all working together?
“Got to you, didn’t I?” said the rebel.
Cole ignored him. DeeNee was dead. She assassinated Rube and then she died. So nobody could ever ask her who she worked for. The guys who chased him were after Rube’s PDA. But was it possible that they weren’t in league with DeeNee? That they had simply staked out the Pentagon parking lot, waiting for Rube to show up?
Cole remembered back to that Monday morning, June sixteenth. There was shooting inside the building, but nobody shot at him out in the parking lot. The security forces inside the Pentagon had killed three bad guys inside. Was it possible that that was all of the guys who were with DeeNee? That the guys who followed him out in the parking lot were a different team, and that’s why they didn’t shoot as soon as they saw him? It took the guys outside a while to realize that Cole, not Rube, had the PDA now. That’s why they didn’t shoot him down, or even follow him immediately.
Absurd. Too complicated. They simply lied to their soldiers. They couldn’t very well announce, “We’re going to kill that evil right-wing madman in the White House and then take over America.” You get a whole different kind of recruit when you announce that as your purpose.
“What were you blowing up out there?” asked the rebel.
“You know, for a guy who was afraid to die, you sure do test our patience.”
“If you were going to kill me, I’d be dead,” said the rebel.
“That’s right,” said Cole. “We chose not to kill you. We put up with your shit. And yet you still believe we’re murderers and torturers.”
“You broke my arms.”
