Part 15 (2/2)

”Thank you, sir.” The florid politeness that had once seemed so unnatural to her was now second nature. ”As I was saying-”

But before she could say it, a man in a guard's uniform stuck his head into the meeting room. ”We're evacuating the building. That was an auto bomb near the front entrance. We don't know if they've got any more close by.” He grimaced. ”We don't even know who they they are, dammit.” He didn't apologize for swearing in front of Flora. are, dammit.” He didn't apologize for swearing in front of Flora.

They. The enemy within never went away. Who was it this time? Confederate saboteurs? Mormons living up to Hyrum Rush's promise? Rebellious Canadians? British agents? Any combination of those groups working together? Flora didn't know. Somebody was going to have to find out, though. The enemy within never went away. Who was it this time? Confederate saboteurs? Mormons living up to Hyrum Rush's promise? Rebellious Canadians? British agents? Any combination of those groups working together? Flora didn't know. Somebody was going to have to find out, though.

”Please come with me,” the guard said.

”Before we do, let's see your identification,” Robert Taft snapped. Flora reluctantly allowed that that made good sense. If the man in the uniform was part of the plot . . . People were going to start looking under beds before they went to sleep if this went on.

The guard showed Senator Taft his ident.i.ty card without a word of protest. Satisfied, Flora nodded. Flora wondered what Taft would have done if the man had gone for his pistol instead. Probably thrown himself at it-he had the courage of his convictions, as well as plenty of courage of the ordinary sort.

Following the guard, the members of the Joint Committee hurried out of the ma.s.sive building Congress used in Philadelphia-wags called it the box the Capitol came in. They emerged on the side opposite the one where the auto bomb had gone off. Along with several others, Flora started around the building so she could see the damage for herself. ”That isn't safe!” the guard exclaimed.

”And how do you know standing here is?” she answered. ”Any one of these motorcars may be full of TNT and ready to blow up.” The guard looked very unhappy, which didn't mean she was wrong.

”You told him,” Taft said approvingly.

”So I did,” she said, and hurried on. A makes.h.i.+ft police and fire line stopped her and the others before they got very close to the site of the explosion. Even what they could see from there was bad enough. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay everywhere. The front of the hall had taken heavy damage. It all seemed worse than the aftermath of an air raid, perhaps because the auto's cha.s.sis turned into more, and more lethal, shrapnel than a bomb casing did. One of Flora's colleagues was noisily sick on his shoes.

”Someone will pay for this.” Robert Taft sounded grim.

No sooner had he spoken than half the facade of the Congressional hall crashed down to the cratered street. A great gray-brown cloud of dust rose. Soldiers and policemen rushed into it to rescue whoever lay buried under the rubble. Flora covered her face with her hands.

A reporter chose that moment to rush up to her and ask, ”Congresswoman, what do you think of this explosion?”

”I hope not too many people got hurt. I hope the ones who did will recover.” Flora realized the man had a job to do, but she didn't feel like answering foolish questions right now.

That didn't stop the reporter from asking them. With an air of breathless antic.i.p.ation, he said, ”Who do you think is to blame for this atrocity?”

”I don't know. I'm sure there will be an investigation,” Flora said.

”But if you had to guess, who would be responsible?” he persisted.

”If I had to guess right now, I I would be irresponsible,” Flora told him. would be irresponsible,” Flora told him.

The answer should have made him take a hint and go away. No such luck. He was not one of those reporters who recognized anything as subtle as a hint. And that turned out to be just as well, for his next question told Flora something she didn't know: ”What do you think of the explosions in Was.h.i.+ngton and New York and Boston and Pittsburgh and Chicago and-other places, too?”

”What explosions?” Flora and Robert Taft spoke together, in identical sharp tones.

”Whole bunch of auto bombs.” The reporter seemed as willing to give information as to try to pry it out of other people. ”The Capitol and Wall Street and the State House in Boston and I don't know what all else. Lots of damage, lots of people dead. All about the same time as this one. News was coming over the wire and by wireless when I got the call to get my, uh, f.a.n.n.y over here.”

”Jesus Christ!” Taft burst out. Flora didn't echo him, but her thoughts amounted to something similar. He went on, ”This has the smell of a conspiracy.” Flora wouldn't have argued with that, either.

The reported scribbled in his spiral-bound notebook. ”Smell of a conspiracy,” he repeated, and dipped his head. ”Thank you, Senator-that's a good line.” He hurried off.

”A good line,” Taft echoed bitterly. ”That's all he cared about. But my G.o.d-if what he said about those other places is true . . .”

”That would be very bad,” Flora said, one of the larger understatements of her own political career. ”The Confederates have had a lot of trouble with auto bombs. I wonder if they're paying us back, or if it's someone else.”

As she had to the reporter, Taft said, ”I don't know.”

She nodded. But her conscience niggled at her all the same. She'd applauded when she heard about auto bombs going off in the Confederate States. The Confederates, after all, deserved it for the way they treated their Negroes.

Again, who thought the United States deserved it? The Confederates, because the USA had had the gall to win the Great War? The Mormons, because the United States wouldn't leave their precious Deseret alone? She would have bet one them, but what did she have for proof? Nothing, and she knew it. The Canadians, because the United States still held their land? The British, because the Americans had taken Canada away from them?

All of the above? None of the above?

Sounding both furious and frightened, Robert Taft went on, ”We'd better get a handle on this business in a hurry. If we don't, any d.a.m.n fool with an imaginary grievance will think he can load dynamite into a motorcar and get even with the world.”

Flora's thoughts hadn't gone in that direction, which didn't mean the Senator from Ohio was wrong. She said, ”We'd better get a handle on this for all kinds of reasons.” Two firemen carried a moaning, b.l.o.o.d.y woman past her on a stretcher. She pointed. ”There's one.”

”Yes.” Taft tipped his fedora to her. ”We have our differences, you and I, but we both love this country.”

”That's true. Not always in the same way, but we do,” Flora said. Cops helped a wounded man stagger by. Flora sighed. ”At a time like this, though, what difference does party make?”

Sergeant Michael Pound was not a happy man. His barrel-and, in fact, his whole unit of barrels-had finally escaped from the southern Ohio backwater where they'd been stuck for so long. They were facing the Confederates farther north. That should have done something to improve the gunner's temper. It should have, but it hadn't.

No, Pound remained unhappy, and made only the slightest efforts to hide it. He was a broad-shouldered, burly man: not especially tall, but made for slewing a gun from side to side if the hydraulics went out. He had a deceptively soft voice, and used it to say deceptively mild things. When he thought the men put above him were idiots, as he often did, he had a way of making sure they knew it.

What really irked him was that he'd been the gunner on Irving Morrell's personal barrel. Whatever Morrell found out, Pound had learned shortly thereafter. Morrell hadn't minded his sarcastic comments on the way the bra.s.s thought (if the bra.s.s thought at all: always an interesting question). And Michael Pound hadn't thought Morrell was an idiot. Oh, no-on the contrary. The only thing wrong with Morrell was that his his superiors hadn't seen how good he was. superiors hadn't seen how good he was.

The Confederates had. After their sniper put a bullet in Morrell, Pound was the one who'd carried him out of harm's way and back to the aid tent. Scuttleb.u.t.t said Morrell was finally back in action. That was good. The CSA would be sorry.

But Morrell wasn't back in action here. here. That wasn't good, and it especially wasn't good for Michael Pound. He'd declined a commission several times. Now he was paying for it. Because of his reputation as a mouthy troublemaker, he didn't even command his own barrel, though a lot of sergeants did. They'd put him under a young lieutenant instead. Pound didn't know if they'd deliberately intended to humiliate him, but they'd sure done the job. That wasn't good, and it especially wasn't good for Michael Pound. He'd declined a commission several times. Now he was paying for it. Because of his reputation as a mouthy troublemaker, he didn't even command his own barrel, though a lot of sergeants did. They'd put him under a young lieutenant instead. Pound didn't know if they'd deliberately intended to humiliate him, but they'd sure done the job.

Bryce Poffenberger might have been born when Pound joined the Army, but probably hadn't. But he owned a little gold bar on each shoulder strap, and Pound had only stripes on his sleeve. That meant Poffenberger was G.o.d-and if you didn't believe it, all you had to do was ask him.

He never asked for Pound's opinion. He didn't seem to think the War Department had issued opinions to enlisted men. If he'd had a better notion of what he was doing himself, Pound wouldn't have minded so much. But he never had been able to suffer fools gladly, and he never had been able to suffer in silence, either.

When Poffenberger ordered the barrel to stop on the forward slope of a hill, Pound said, ”Sir, we would have done better to halt on the reverse slope.”

”Oh?” The second lieutenant's voice already had a defensive quaver to it, and he'd known Pound for only a few days at that point. ”Why, pray tell?”

Pray tell? Pound thought. Had anyone since the Puritans really said that? Bryce Poffenberger just had, by G.o.d. Patiently, the sergeant answered, ”Because on the reverse slope we're hull-down to the enemy, sir. This way, the whole barrel makes a nice, juicy target.” Pound thought. Had anyone since the Puritans really said that? Bryce Poffenberger just had, by G.o.d. Patiently, the sergeant answered, ”Because on the reverse slope we're hull-down to the enemy, sir. This way, the whole barrel makes a nice, juicy target.”

Lieutenant Poffenberger sniffed. ”I don't believe there are any Confederates close by.” He stood up in the turret to look out through the cupola. That was something good barrel commanders did. It took a certain nerve. Poffenberger might have been a moron, but he wasn't a cowardly moron.

Not half a minute later, a round from a Confederate antibarrel gun a.s.sa.s.sinated an oak tree just to the barrel's left. Poffenberger ducked back down with a startled squeak. Sometimes-not often-Sergeant Pound was tempted to believe in G.o.d. This was one of those times.

”Reverse!” Poffenberger ordered the driver. ”Back up!” The Confederates got off one more shot at the barrel before it put the hill between itself and the gun. Lieutenant Poffenberger eyed Michael Pound. ”How did you know that was going to happen, Sergeant?”

”I have more combat experience than you do, sir,” Pound answered matter-of-factly. So does my cat, and I haven't got a cat. So does my cat, and I haven't got a cat.

”They warned me about you,” Poffenberger said. ”They told me you had a big mouth and were insubordinate.”

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