Paul coasted down the hill without putting any throttle to the motor, took a slow left onto Sharp Park Road, and killed the engine. He dismounted and let the bike fall in the middle of the intersection. He grabbed his duffel bag and walked into the small copse of trees in the park across the street. It was too dark to completely make out the sign, but oddly enough it wasn't Sharp Park. In the darkness he sat and felt through the bag, grabbing and sorting the components he needed. The cool metal under his fingers comforted him while he fitted together pieces of the sniper rifle. In less than a minute, he finished assembling the weapon, complete with a suppressor. Silencers were no good on a .50-cal because the bullets travel faster than the speed of sound, but Paul used a special subsonic load with hollow-point bullets. From thirty feet away they'd make big, big holes in people, and there'd be almost no report.
Paul went prone, popped up the legs on the rifle, closed his eyes, and listened. After a few minutes he was rewarded by the sound of an engine. He left his eyes closed until the headlights swept down the hill and past his position. He snapped them open. As he had hoped, a jeep carrying two men screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection, narrowly missing the motorcycle.
Paul eyed them through the green glare of the night vision scope. The man riding shotgun got out, unslung his assault rifle and eyed the low wall that separated the college campus from the surrounding land. Behind him, the driver got out and circled the other side of the jeep. His head evaporated in a puff of red mist, and he dropped behind the car.
Paul chambered the next round as the second soldier turned. The man squinted to block out the glare of the headlights and called out to his squad-mate. You don't even know you're dead. Paul exhaled, then pulled the trigger again. He was up and running before the body hit the ground.
Paul dragged the bodies across the road and dumped them in the same spot he had used for the ambush. The motorcycle went with them. He couldn't do anything about the blood in the road, but the sun wouldn't rise for another few hours, and the darkness might give him the time he needed. Five minutes after he'd fired his first shot he pulled away in the jeep, dressed in the US Army uniform of Nigel Barrett, PFC.
Paul pulled up to the roadblock on Highway One. A massive convoy truck blocked the road and the entire shoulder on the left-hand side. The right-hand side had no shoulder, just a guardrail and a cliff leading hundreds of feet down to the ocean. Soldiers looked down at him from the truck. He reached up and handed them Barrett's papers. As one of the soldiers spoke into the radio, Paul drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Nobody seemed eager to strike up a conversation.
Ten seconds went by, then twenty. Maybe this wasn't such a great disguise. After almost a full minute, Paul wondered if it might not be a better idea to jump out of the jeep, dive a hundred or so feet into the ocean, and take his chances with the sharks.
He covered a sigh of relief when the trooper handed back the manila envelope. He muttered a "Thank you" and tossed the papers on the passenger seat. The truck's engine started with the annoying, repeated beep of heavy vehicles everywhere. Moments later the road in front of him was clear, and he was on his way south. He cut north in Santa Clara.
Two hours later Paul Renner was most of the way to Sacramento in a stolen Chevy Corsica. He couldn't fly with the manhunt for Harold Trubb in full swing, and he'd have to watch his back, but that was an inconvenience he could live with.
He looked at the map from the glove box. If he took Route 80 across the country to New York State, he could cut through Pennsylvania on Route 15 and be in D.C in less than five days if he obeyed the speed limit. Sometimes, it paid to follow the law.
Chapter 27
February 3rd, 5:00 AM PST; Sunny Valley Super-9 Motel; San Francisco, California.
The alarm clock sprang to life with a newsman's deep, somber voice, shocking Gene into abrupt and unwelcome wakefulness. KSJO radio, though a modern rock station, was given over entirely to coverage of the impending nuclear threat.
"—at least seventeen dead by current estimates, all as a result of last night's rioting. Car-by-car searches on the bridges have brought traffic to a standstill, and even minor roads are backed up for miles with anxious residents trying to leave town.
"Angry protesters are questioning the administration's decision to search every evacuating vehicle, but FEMA spokesperson Nora Faulkner insists that containing the threat and apprehending the terrorists is the administration's highest priority. We turn to Elliott Marshall of NBC News for more. Elliott?"
Gene stretched and every muscle complained. He yawned as Elliott Marshall took over.
"Thank you, John. Rioting and civil unrest are now minimal. Many police and civilians were injured overnight, and two policemen have been confirmed killed as authorities struggled to restore order. FEMA has assured NBC News that military convoys will keep essential supplies such as food and medicine flowing into the peninsula and that there is no need to stockpile food or other supplies. Drop sites include hospitals, police stations, the old military base at the Presidio, and National Guard depots.