“Ah, Dez,” he whispered in a voice he knew could not carry to her ears. “You’re crazy but I do love you so. How sane does that make me?”
Up ahead, Dez paused by the double doors that led to the auditorium, looking back over her shoulder almost as if she had heard him after all. Their eyes met and she gave him a brief, sad smile.
What does that mean, he wondered. Was it an acknowledgment of feelings as viewed from two sides of an uncrossable field of wreckage? Possibly. Or, was it a good-bye? Did Dez believe that they were all going to die here? Neither she nor JT had shown much faith or enthusiasm for the videos he’d sent. Though they did not say so, it was clear that they did not think Trout could make his plan work.
He wasn’t entirely sure himself. Nor was Goat. It was a gamble of a kind he had never imagined making before, not even in his wildest Hollywood dreams.
Trout held eye contact with Dez, wanting to preserve the moment, to make this communication, however tenuous, last. But timing was against them and that connection was too fragile to support it. Dez turned away and reached for the door handles.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
BORDENTOWN STARBUCKS
Goat was quickly going crazy.
He kept nervously toggling back and forth between Twitter, YouTube, and Facebook, watching the hits, the retweets, and reposts of Billy’s video. In the first hour it was on YouTube it had fewer than a hundred hits, and most of the comments posted by viewers were cynical and mocking. They did not believe the video was real. Then something happened a few minutes into the second hour. There was a significant jump in hits. Goat backtracked and saw that the new rush was being driven by Twitter. A couple of key players had retweeted the URL. Some of these were conspiracy theory nuts who thought this was an early Christmas present, some were anarchists of the kind who thought Julian Assange’s WikiLeaks posts in 2010 were holy writ, but a lot of them were serious players in the media. Goat had posted the link everywhere and had sent it in mass e-mails to everyone in his media listservs. Thousands upon thousands of people in print, broadcast, and digital media. Some of them apparently knew Billy Trout, and that’s where the traction started. They reposted the link to their contacts and included personal endorsements of Trout. The secondary wave of posts went out in a massive ripple. Someone who knew Billy also knew a producer on CNN and that person included the link in a news update. That sort of thing happened again and again. By the time ninety minutes had passed, the spread was viral.
Viral marketing. Goat considered that, and for a moment he thought that it was an unfortunate choice of words; then he looked at it from a different perspective. It had a flavor of poetic justice to it.
By the end of the second hour the number of hits on YouTube had climbed to the high five figures and every time Goat refreshed the page the number jumped by hundreds. And then by thousands. The spread was geometric.
But Billy Trout did not call back.
Even though Goat’s system could accept a satellite call via his Skype, the connection did not work in reverse. Goat could not reach Trout.
Goat licked his lips and drummed his fingers and drank too much coffee. And felt his nerves burning down to the gunpowder.
Finally he couldn’t take it anymore
and he posted the second video. This was the one where Billy was videotaping Dez Fox while she argued with the National Guard Colonel on the walkie-talkie. If the first video was a slap in the face, then this was going to be a full swing-of-the-leg kick in the nuts.
He kept glancing at the door as if expecting federal agents to come busting in any second. Well, he thought, too bad if they do … but it’s already out there. So, fuck you.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM
WASHINGTON, D. C.
The president of the United States watched the monitors on the wall. The rain and wind had diminished significantly. Two minutes ago he gave permission for the six Apache helicopters to take off, with four Blackhawks flying close support. The Apaches each carried fuel-air bombs as well as their usual complement of Hellfire missiles, machine guns, and rocket pods. There was enough firepower aboard those helos to destroy an average-size American city. Far more than was necessary to wipe Stebbins off the face of the earth.
The order he had given was to fly to Stebbins. Nothing more. Not yet. He couldn’t imagine how he could shape his mouth to give the kill order for this.
Scott Blair, the National Security Advisor, came hurrying into the Situation Room. He waved away the staff members sitting closest to the president and then bent to speak in a confidential tone. “Mr. President? We’ve just learned that someone in Stebbins is sending out messages. ”
“What kind of messages, Blair? And to whom?”
“The wrong kind, Mr. President,” said Blair. “What’s worse is that they’re being posted on the Internet. YouTube, mostly; fed by links on Twitter, and other social media sites. We’re working to control those sites … but the Internet is volatile. The National Guard units in Stebbins are attempting to locate the sender and shut him down. ”
“What’s he saying?”
“I can play it for you, sir. Do you want me to clear the room?”
“If it’s already on the Internet, there’s no point. Play it. ”
Blair nodded and punched some buttons on a computer built into the table. The screen switched from the weather report to a page of the YouTube Web site. Blair pressed Play and a good looking white man with blond hair and a pinstripe shirt appeared. The man was soaked and his face was lined with stress. His eyes, which were robin’s egg blue, stared into the camera with laserlike intensity.
“My name is Billy Trout…”