Ben's gang, on the other hand, tasked with entering the building while the Speed Freaks were distracting the Full Metal Jackets trying to guard it, planned to attack with a combination of Colt Commando 5.56 semi-automatic rifles and the M203 grenade launchers attached to the Armalites. They would only use their handguns, it was decided, if they encountered the clones, the Men in Black, once inside the building.

  'Any questions?' Ben asked when the weapons had been distributed and everyone was preparing to leave.

  'Yeah/ the Cowboy said, now looking like the real McCoy with a holstered .45-inch Colt handgun on his hip and an Armalite with a grenade launcher in his big right hand. 'What do we do once we get inside?'

  Michael and Ben glanced at one another. Then the latter shrugged and the former said, 'In truth, we don't know. We don't know what's in there. We just have to play it by ear, using our commonsense.'

  'Ill use my commonsense,' Zapata Gomez said, his dark eyes still flashing dangerously. 'I'll just blow away any motherfucker who gets in my way.'

  'Please don't,' Michael said. 'We have to bear in mind that some of those we'll encounter could be the living dead and that they could be returned, with the proper treatment, to their normal selves. Cyborgs, Men in Black - okay - but not the living

  dead.'

  'We may not have time to tell the difference,' Jack the Knife said, 'and if I have one second of doubt, I'm taking no chances.'

  'That's fair enough,' Lenny Travis said. 'All wars have their innocent casualties.'

  'Correct,' Ben said, 'but in this case try to keep them to a minimum by picking your targets with extreme care. Any more questions?'

  'Yeah,' Richie Pitt said. 'What do we do if they've somehow fled the building and all we find is that growing mass of extraordinary energy?'

  'That might depend on what kind of energy it is,' Michael told him. 'It might depend on how the energy affects us — if it affects us at all.'

  'I'd like to know what that shit is,' Rubbermouth said. 'I don't wanna even have to breathe that shit.'

  You don't want to go in, don't go in,' the Cowboy said, his voice low and mellow. 'We're all volunteers here.'

  'John Wayne's been resurrected,' Jewboy sneered. 'That fuckin' dude is a holograph.'

  'I'm as much flesh and blood as you are,' the Cowboy said calmly.

  Okay, cool it, you guys,' Gumshoe said. 'Are there any more questions?'

  Yeah,' Bonnie said, holding up her Colt Commando semiautomatic and .45-inch Colt handgun. 'How do those of us going in on foot actually get to the White House, bearing in mind that we're carryin' these fucking weapons?'

  Almost wincing at her profanity, Michael said, 'We hitch a ride with a Speed Freak to Lafayette Square, disembark there, and make our way around the Treasury Building by foot to one of the old tourist entrances on the west side of the Ellipse. The Speed Freaks, led by Gumshoe, will give us approximately ten minutes to reach our destination and get ourselves organized. As soon as we hear the shots and exploding bombs of the Speed Freaks, hopefully distracting the Full Metal Jackets on the north lawns, we'll enter the White House grounds by way of one of the western side entrances and make our way from there to the north side. From there, we'll attempt to make our way into the building through the double entrance doors of the north portico while the Speed Freaks are still keeping the Full Metal Jackets distracted. Do you have problems with that?'

  'No,' Bonnie said firmly, like a stranger, as if they had never shared a bed together, almost as if she despised him.

  Realizing that he had tried to be sarcastic and that Bonnie had sensed it, Michael suffered a pang of guilt and again recalled what Lee Brandenberg had told him about not letting personal feelings interfere with the job.

  I'd better keep that advice in mind, he thought, before I do something stupid.

  'Okay,' Ben said, turning to his own gang, which now included Bonnie. 'Team up with someone who's willing to carry you in and let's all get out of here. The sooner we do this, the better.'

  'I'll take anyone,' Greaser Madsen said, 'in my good old souped-up Silver Thunderbird. Any takers, guys and gals?'

  'Me,' Lenny Travis said.

  'Me, too,' Richie Pitt said. 'I ain't sitting on the rear of no motorcycle with one of you crazies.'

  The remaining Speed Freaks howled with laughter, slapping each other's hands, while the grinning Greaser led Lenny and Richie out of the basement.

  'I'll take the Long Hair on my Suzuki,' Rubbermouth said, 'if she'll agree to sit in front of me, on the tanks, and let me press my hot groin against her slick butt.'

  'In your butt!' Bonnie sneered.

  'Come with me in Satchmo's Mazda,' Michael said, trying in vain to smile at her and hide his concern.

  'No, thanks,' she responded, then turned to Gumshoe. 'I just loved riding around on your silver-tanked Yamaha 400. How's bout it, Gumshoe?'

  Gumshoe looked uncomfortably at Michael who just hrugged and nodded. 'Okay,' Gumshoe said.

  Hardly able to look at Bonnie, feeling deeply hurt, but still trying to keep Lee Brandenberg's warning foremost in his thoughts, Michael followed Luke 'Satchmo' Armstrong out of the basement, slinging his Armalite with grenade launcher over his shoulder as he advanced up the stairs, close behind the black man, feeling the holstered Colt handgun bouncing heavily against his right hip. As one of Freedom

  Bay's adepts, though he'd been mainly instructed in parapsychology, he had also been taught to fire the weapons of the World in the belief that if he ever ventured there he would almost certainly need them.

  Now it seemed that he was indeed going to need them.

  Sitting beside Satchmo in the car as it carried him the short distance to Lafayette Square, Michael glanced at the sky above the White House area, noting the striking absence of flying saucers. Then he recalled the last e-mail he had received from Lee Brandenberg in Freedom Bay, informing him that the saucers there had also been exploding in mid-flight while telecommunications were breaking down and might soon fail altogether. In fact, they almost certainly had failed just as that message was being sent, since the e-mail had been cut off before completion and Michael had been unable to contact Brandenberg ever since, not even through mental telepathy, which also seemed to be blocked. Now the weight of the world was on Michael's shoulders and he felt burdened by it. He felt this even as he was still suffering over Bonnie's sudden outburst of anger, an emotion he could not deal with, and this made the situation seem all the more ridiculous. Confused, Michael sighed aloud.

  'What's the matter, brother?' Satchmo said as he drove his Mazda expertly along G Street, flashing perfect white teeth in his

  gleaming black face. 'The new kid in town's got an attack of nerves, maybe?'

  'Maybe,' Michael agreed.

  'Don't worry, man. We all gotta go some time. If it ain't today, it sure as hell will be tomorrow and that as sure as hell is comin'. Just say your prayers, hope for the best and play it as it lays.'

  'I'll try,' Michael said.

  Satchmo turned off G Street just before the Treasury Building, went along to H, then turned left at McPherson Square and finally braked to a halt where some of the other hot rods and motorcycles were already parked outside the front of St John's Church, located on the north side of the park. A few of the old street lights were still working here and there, dimly illuminating the dark square, and again Michael was struck by the fact that no flying saucers or footballs could be seen hovering in the night sky. Nevertheless, though the cyborg ground and air patrols had obviously ceased for good, everyone's instinct was to remain as quiet as possible this close to the White House.

  'Thanks for the lift,' Michael said quietly to Satchmo.

  'My pleasure, man. Adios and good luck.'

  They slapped hands together, then Michael slipped out of his side of the Mazda. Gumshoe had already arrived with Bonnie and was now straddling his beloved silver-tanked Yamaha 400 while talking quiedy to her and Ben Wilkerson. Lenny Travis and Richie Pitt had also arrived with Greaser and were just clambering out of his Silver Thunderbird. As Michael walked along the sidewalk to join them, the rest of the Speed Freaks roared up to the group, braked to a halt and then killed their engines. An eerie silence descended. The Cowboy slid off the back of Rubbermouth's huge Suzuki GSXR 750

  motorcycle, tipped his stetson hat to Rubbermouth in a silent gesture of thanks, then removed his Armalite from his shoulder and proceeded to load it. Instandy, the others all did the same, breaking the silence with the ratding of shell cases and the

  metallic snapping of bolts. When they were finished, another brief silence ensued until Ben Wilkerson spoke.

  'Everyone ready?' he asked, glancing about him, first at his own gang, then at Gumshoe and the Speed Freaks. The latter were either checking the home-made bombs in their canvas satchels or taking up riding positions on their powerful motorcycles or in their souped-up, brightly painted hot rods with tail-

  fins and spoilers. They were a colourful sight. Everyone nodded.

  'Okay, let's do it.'

  'Good luck,' Gumshoe said.

  Michael grinned at him and gave him a wave. Then he fell in behind Bonnie, still not speaking to her, as she followed Ben and Lenny and Richie across the dimly-lit road. Carrying their rifles at the ready, they headed for the north-east side of the park. The Cowboy was out front, crouched low and moving fast, and the sight of him gave them all confidence as they advanced on the White House.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  With the Cowboy in the lead, they made their way down the east side of the park and stopped at the corner on Pennsylvania Avenue to look across the road to the White House. From where they stood, bunched together in the darkness, they could clearly see the colonnade of the north portico, supporting an unadorned pediment and with elaborate carvings gracing the area above the double entrance doors.

  Two armed cyborgs were guarding that entrance, one on each side, and more were spaced out along the length of the building, with Prowlers and SARGEs parked between them, their weapons clearly moving to cover their respective arcs of fire, north, east and west. More dangerously, there were cyborgs and their vehicles — three sets of Prowlers and SARGEs, the former like tanks, the latter like armed dune buggies — along Pennsylvania Avenue, between the White House grounds and Lafayette Square.

  'We can't cross here,' the Cowboy whispered. 'We'd be safer cutting around the east side of the Treasury Building and coming up on one of the entrance gates from there.'

  'That gives us less time to get there,' Michael said.

  'Then let's do it,' the Cowboy said and instantly turned left to lead them along G Street, then down 15th and past the Treasury Building.

  As they scurried through the darkness, only erratically illu-

  minated by the occasional working street light, Michael glanced at Bonnie, crouched low just ahead of him, her shapely body clearly outlined in a skintight black T-shirt, tight black denims and black leather boots, the holstered pistol bouncing against her firm right thigh, the Colt Commando held in both hands and angled across her chest. His heart went out to her. He desperately wanted her to live, to not be damaged in this action, because despite his anger over what he had said, he still believed it and feared what could happen to her. Nevertheless, she was here, advancing crouched low in front of him, as determined as he was, and he silendy vowed to keep his eye on her and give her protection.

  As they circled around the Treasury Building, which loomed darkly, ominously, above them, he thought of the Speed Freaks waiting at the north side of the square. Concentrating upon them, he was able to visualize Gumshoe seated on his silver-tanked Yamaha 400, his legs spread with booted feet on the ground, his hands on the handlebars, waiting to take off. Given the circumstances, it was difficult to break into Gumshoe's thoughts, but Michael, with his insight, could certainly sense them: as he watched Gumshoe check his wristwatch, letting the last five minutes unwind, he knew that he was thinking of Bonnie, wondering what she really thought of him, since she had deliberately, openly, rejected Michael in favour of him over the ride to the White House. At the same time, however, he was thinking of the possibility, soon coming, of putting his unfortunate parents out of their misery, though doing that would be a nightmare for him.

  Gumshoe checked his wristwatch again, waiting now for the last four minutes to unwind. Then he

  glanced about him at the other Speed Freaks in their vividly coloured hot rods, on their powerful motorcycles, and saw that they were tensed and ready to go, always keen for some action. Gumshoe was keen as well, wanting to get this thing over and done with, but he was also terrified at the thought of what would happen when he saw his

  parents again — or, at least, saw the severed heads of his parents on that pig's thick neck. The very thought of it almost made Gumshoe throw up, though he somehow managed to control himself.

  What he could not control was the racing of his heart and the sweat on his brow. Amazingly, he then thought of Bonnie Packard and of how much he wanted her. Thinking of her made it a lot easier as the last three minutes unwound.

  Michael sensed all this in Gumshoe as he followed Bonnie and the others, still led by the Cowboy, around the south-east corner of the Treasury Building. Once around the corner, the Cowboy raised his right fist to indicate that they should slow down and take more care as they made their way to the grounds of the Ellipse, south of the White House and just across the road. When they reached the next corner of the building, almost directly opposite one of the old visitor entrances, they were shocked to see that it was guarded by two armed cyborgs. The muzzles of the laser weapons of the cyborgs were swinging left and right, covering the road in both directions. The cyborgs' metallic noses and mouths gleamed in the moonlight, under eyes unnaturally narrowed and looking, from this distance, like pissholes in blue ice.

  'God damn it,' the Cowboy whispered.

  Ben checked his wristwatch while holding his Colt Commando rifle in his free hand. 'We don't have any time to waste,' he said, looking up again. 'Gumshoe's gang are going to attack any second now, so we have to decide what to do.'

  Michael glanced at Bonnie, who was kneeling there in the shadows of the corner a few feet away.

  When she caught his glance, she gazed steadily at him, then broke out in a smile that washed him clean.

  'We've no choice,' he said, turning back to the front. 'We have to tackle those cyborgs.'

  At that moment they heard the roaring of the hot rods and motorcycles from the north side of the building, followed by

  pistol shots and explosions from what could only be home-made

  bombs.

  Instantly, the Cowboy loaded a grenade into his M2I3 grenade launcher, then raised his Armalite to the firing position, took aim - and fired.

  'Go!' Michael bawled.

  The wind rushed past Gumshoe and the noise of the explosions hurt his ears as he roared around Lafayette Square on his Yamaha 400 and then turned into Pennsylvania Avenue. Some of the other Speed Freaks were directly in front of him, already racing straight past the White House, controlling their hot rods or motorcycles with one hand and using the other to snatch home-made bombs out of their canvas satchels and hurl them at the Full Metal Jackets. Gumshoe did the same, expertly handling his powerful motorcycle with one hand while he quickly removed a Semtex bomb from his satchel, released a blasting cap that would be sprung on impact with the target, and hurled it at a SARGE as he passed.

  Other bombs were already exploding even as he hurled his first and he was dazzled by jagged sheets of silvery light that tore through the darkness, followed by flying, spinning debris from the damaged Full Metal Jackets. Blinking against the light, feeling the blast from the explosions, Gumshoe saw smoke

  billowing from an aperture in one of the Prowlers as the cyborgs near it fired their laser weapons. The narrow phosphorescent beams of light from the laser weapons, filled with millions of tiny sparks, cut through the darkness, moving this way and that, criss-crossing as they sought to find a target, forming a dazzling web above the dark road. The Speed Freaks were fast, however, weaving expertly to avoid the laser beams and, because they had taken the Full Metal Jackets by surprise, they managed to make the first pass without suffering any casualties.

  Moving parallel to the far end of the West Wing of the White House, the Speed Freaks went into screeching U-turns

  and headed back the way they had come, encouraged by the success of their first run. Noting that they had already damaged at least one Prowler and blown one SARGE to smithereens, Gumshoe began his second run, weaving this way and that, leaning dangerously close to the ground to make himself a difficult target for the laser beams that were now hissing out of the handguns of the cyborgs and the larger weapons of the Prowlers and SARGEs. Though normally motorcycles were more dangerous than hot rods, in this case the latter made for larger, slower targets, a point proven when the Silver Thunderbird, which had swept in close to the sidewalk to enable Greaser to hurl another bomb, took a direct hit from the powerful laser beam of a Prowler. With the Prowler's weapon obviously set on maximum power, the Silver Thunder-bird turned red-hot in less than a second and exploded an instant later, killing Greaser instantly and turning into a ball of white fire, with shards of glass and gobs of melting metal flying outward in all directions.

  Miraculously, the debris struck none of the other Speed Freaks and they managed to finish the pass, screeching into U-turns again in order to make the third run.

  Even as he accelerated, Gumshoe saw that the smoking Prowler was now out of action, its laser weapon not moving, and that another Prowler had also been hit and was belching oily smoke and shaking visibly from a series of internal explosions. Directly ahead of Gumshoe, Rubbermouth, who had obviously used up his couple of bombs, was whooping crazily and firing his .45 Colt handgun one-handed as he controlled his dangerously wobbling Suzuki with the other.