Loss Of Reason, Miles A. Maxwell [electronic reader txt] 📗

Franklin raced back down the hill, concerned he’d gone too far. I’ve never done anything like — Not even for people at the church . . .

He slowed to cross the big intersection at Route 46, then picked up his pace again, head shaking: never without their permission — someone expressing a personal desire for change —

Even then it had caused him grief.

Using psychology and hypnosis to help church members solve personal problems had only gotten him a dressing down by Reverend Maples. He could hear the senior minister now:

“Prayer, Franklin. It’s the only way!”

And worse still, Franklin thought, that Red Cross guy’ll never come through anyway!

At the pedestrian gate where he’d left the airport, coiled razor wire now topped the chain-link fence, soldiers in gray urban camouflage now blocked his way. Checking IDs and credentials.

“No entry without proper military authorization,” said the soldier to his right, a man with short fuzzy hair and mottled skin like charred coal.

“I came through this same gate only an hour ago,” Franklin explained.

“Airport access is severely restricted now. What business do you have at Teterboro?” The man was trying to act tough, but Franklin sensed a friendly warmth underneath.

“I flew in on that jet over there,” Franklin pointed to the small white WILLIAMS Lear lined up in the middle of half a dozen other aircraft. Neither Everon nor Andréa was in sight. “I’m a minister. I was up at the hospital trying to organize a Red Cross mission.”

A second soldier, a pink-faced serious young man in black plastic glasses, eyeballed Franklin’s dark tied-back hair. The jeans, the black leather jacket. “Do you have some kind of church ID that says you’re a minister — or something that identifies you with that aircraft?”

Franklin’s hand went to his back pants pocket. Empty! In all the rush — Everon’s call at Ash Cave, getting to the jet, the aborted Robinson flight — he’d left his wallet in his fanny pack with his climbing gear.

“Uh — I left my wallet in the plane.”

Another soldier, tough-looking, massive, wearing a slanted dark beret and sergeant stripes, stepped over. His full cheeks and bulging lips looked ready to explode. The name on the uniform said PAGE.

“No ID, no entry!” Page snapped. “Nobody’s allowed to fly outta here.” Page’s was a sickly, psychotic voice.

“Sarge, maybe we ought to let him in,” said the first soldier.

“Shut it!” Page leaned in, got right in Franklin’s face. “Go back up ta the hospital! Plentya sick and dyin’ up there for ministers ta take care of!”

The soldiers under Page’s command seemed perfectly used to his lack of consideration. And Franklin felt no embarrassment. Only determination.

I have to get through!

He was already studying Page, senses collecting data: heart rate, skin tension. How many friends, how many relatives has this man probably lost in the city? He’s just following somebody’s orders. It’s only the sound of a sick soul trying to push away its pain. But the man wasn’t going to listen to reason. What can I use — to get past him?

But then strangely, Franklin suddenly shut down.

What’s wrong with me? Doubts creeping in: I didn’t really get anywhere with that hospital guy, did I? He couldn’t think. He couldn’t process. Couldn’t understand. He glanced at the distant glow on the sky. I have to get in there! Analyze! Is — is Page falling back on — on his military training? The same way I would — ?

“Move on or be put under arrest!” Page shouted in his face.

Franklin knew how it was. His own Army training had been fun — once his drill sergeant reported his climbing ability. Right out of boot camp the Army began using him to teach rappelling to Special Forces troops at Cliffside, Colorado . . .

“Okay,” Page said. “That’s it. Lock him up!”

“But what if he is a minister, Sarge?”

“What if I’m the tooth fairy? You heard me!”

Franklin’s hands shot to the chain-link fence.

Page’s men tried to pull him away. Halfheartedly, Franklin thought. They’ll have to do better than that!

Resist!

His hands gripped like steel. Orders given, orders obeyed! Independent thought replaced by obedience! Just like South America. The story he’d told Chuck was true, with one fatal exception. They hadn’t just flown away. He never did understand why out of all the possible cartel operations to go after, they’d been ordered to target that particular village. And nobody would ever tell him.

The same way Sergeant Page has no clear reason for what he’s doing now!

The two men under Page’s command struggled harder, trying to rip him from the fence. One lifted his feet. Page’s beret went flying as he jumped in too, twisting him one way then back, until his legs were straight out from the gate post. The hip on Page’s camo pants caught on a wire in the chain-link fence — RrriiiiP! The gray fabric tore.

“What’s going on here!” a clipped, sophisticated voice called out. A colonel quickly stepped up alongside Page. His gray camo field uniform bore no medals or ribbons but its shiny metal plate read: MARSH.

The men dropped Franklin’s legs. Sturdy, square-bodied, sandy hair going gray, Marsh seemed a by-the-rules officer. But something about the man said: FAIR.

Franklin got his feet beneath him, stood — but this time just inside the fence — while Page explained.

“This man has no ID — claims he came in on a plane over there!” he scoffed angrily. “Trying to scam his way into the airport with some line about a phony Red Cross mission!”

“We can’t have that!” Marsh agreed.

Franklin had really pissed the sergeant off. If there was one thing an Army sergeant knew, it was how to handle his senior officers — something Franklin understood even if he hadn’t liked. When finally it came time to re-enlist, from an Army base in Texas he’d called the only living person he truly trusted. Cynthia. His sister’s advice, simple: “Don’t let your life’s right thing pass you by.” Nine years later, Franklin was ordained.

Watching Colonel Marsh now, Sergeant Page, the two men under them, Franklin had a disturbing thought. Orders given, orders obeyed. Like the demands made by the church’s senior minister, Ralph Maples. The religious mind — the military mind. Both dependent on top-down orders — is there some connection? Can this help me get in somehow? He didn’t quite —

“Colonel Marsh! What are you doing?” a new voice roared with the sound of command. The approaching big, bald, bullet-headed officer was a two-star general! The polished metal name tag over the left pocket of his dress dark greens said ANDERS.

“Informing this civilian of the prohibition on unofficial rescues —”

“Snap it up then, Colonel! Officially sanctioned military flights only! I’m due at Newark in twenty minutes. Is there going to be a problem handling this airport, Colonel? Because if there is —”

“Not a problem, sir,” Marsh said. “Alright, men!”

They began to peel Franklin’s fingers off the fence tubes. He was moments from Page’s men hauling him off — without reprieve this time. These men and their inane orders! Won’t let me inside! It’s Cynthia’s life! His mind ran furiously, trying to think of any way he could talk himself around them, when a familiar voice in his ear said, “What’s going on?”

It was the big man himself, lugging a large green suitcase, a big red plus-sign on its side. Chuck Farndike smiled at Franklin. “Got everything we need right here.”

We? Franklin looked at him silently. He was supposed to set up Everon’s clearance — that’s all!

But Linguistic Reprogramming was about more choices, not less. Probably some of the suggestions had worn off. Not the things Chuck really wanted, though.

“They won’t let me back into the airport,” Franklin explained.

Franklin got it. Being a blood coordinator was no doubt a valuable service but not up to Chuck’s capabilities or true desires, the way he saw himself. To stay there collecting blood, a part of Chuck would have died.

Chuck looked at General Anders, and taking a deep breath, chest swelling, pulled an ID from his right pocket.