Chapter 13 - The Broadcast Citadel
The city skyline was a blur of fractured neon and sweeping searchlights as the armored truck barrelled northward.
Natalie watched through the reinforced side window as three pursuit cruisers attempted to flank their rear wheels.
Silvio kept the steering wheel steady, using the sheer weight of the armored hauler to hold the center lane of the elevated expressway.
"Where are we taking this tape?" Natalie shouted over the deafening whine of the diesel engine.
"The federal courthouse is surrounded by Vance’s personal guard," Damon said, checking the ammunition in his sidearm.
"The local newspaper offices have already been cleared out under an emergency evacuation order."
"There is only one place within twenty miles that Vance cannot silence with a single phone call," Rose said, pointing her cane through the front glass.
High above the northern ridges of the city, perched atop a granite bluff, stood the red-and-white lattice of a five-hundred-foot transmission tower.
The steel spire of KPT-TV, the oldest independent public broadcasting station in the state, pierced the stormy cloud deck.
"The High Ridge transmitter," Damon realized, turning to look at his grandmother.
"It operates on an analog terrestrial relay system built during the Cold War," Rose explained.
"It feeds directly into the national emergency broadcast network."
"If we broadcast the recording from that transmitter room, Vance cannot cut the cable feed."
"He cannot pull the fiber-optic plugs."
"The signal will broadcast across seven states simultaneously, directly over every television screen, car radio, and emergency frequency."
"Who is going to let us into that control booth at two o'clock in the morning?" Natalie asked.
Rose reached inside her wet coat and retrieved an old leather address book, its pages yellowed with age.
"The chief broadcast engineer at that station is Marcus Reed," Rose said softly.
"Forty years ago, Marcus was a rookie investigative journalist who worked with your father."
"He was the only reporter who refused to publish the department's fake suicide story."
"Arthur Vance had him blacklisted from every major news network in the country."
"Marcus ended up working the graveyard shift at the public transmitter, keeping old vacuum tubes alive."
"He has been waiting forty years for someone to bring him the other half of that tape."
The armored hauler veered off the expressway, tires screeching against wet macadam as it climbed the winding mountain access road.
The trees grew dense and dark around them, shielding the road from the city below.
Behind them, the flashing blue strobes of the pursuit vehicles fell back, struggling to match the heavy truck's traction on the steep, winding incline.
At the summit of the ridge, the massive steel perimeter gates of the broadcast facility loomed through the fog.
A sign on the chain-link fence read: KPT-TV TRANSMISSION STATION — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Silvio didn't slow down.
The truck smashed through the padlocked gate, tearing the chain-link fabric away and grinding up the gravel driveway.
The vehicle slid to a halt directly outside the reinforced cinderblock bunker beneath the transmission tower.
Damon kicked his door open, dropping into the mud with his weapon raised.
"Out! Move! Move!" Damon yelled.
Natalie helped Rose down from the high cab, shielding the old woman's head from the driving rain.
Natalie held the tape canister tightly against her stomach with her other arm.
The heavy steel security door of the bunker swung open before they even reached the concrete steps.
A man in his late sixties stood in the doorway, wearing a worn flannel shirt, thick glasses, and holding an aluminum flashlight.
His hair was entirely silver, his face etched with decades of cynical sorrow.
He looked down at the battered group, his eyes widening in shock as they settled on Rose Marino.
"Rose?" Marcus Reed whispered, his voice trembling in disbelief.
"Marcus," Rose answered, her breathing shallow from the cold.
"I brought someone you should have met twenty years ago."
Marcus looked toward Natalie, his flashlight beam catching her face, her rain-soaked dark hair, and her fierce, steady eyes.
Marcus gasped, taking a step backward into the brightly lit hallway.
"Thomas," Marcus choked out, his eyes instantly welling with tears.
"She looks just like him."
"My name is Natalie Brooks," she said, stepping over the threshold into the bunker.
"And I have my father's evidence."
Natalie held up the aluminum tape canister and the water-damaged leather ledger.
Marcus stared at the objects in her hands, his lower lip trembling violently.
"My God," Marcus whispered, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
"You actually found it."
From the valley below, the wailing roar of high-speed pursuit sirens grew louder, climbing the mountain road like an avalanche of iron and steel.
"They're coming up the ridge, Marcus," Damon warned, stepping inside and slamming the heavy steel security door shut.
"Vance has thirty tactical men right behind us."
"We need that transmitter live in five minutes."
Marcus Reed wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, his posture instantly straightening with an authority he hadn't felt in forty years.
"Follow me," Marcus commanded, turning down the corridor.
May you like
"I have the master feed board warmed up."
"Let's show this state who their governor really is."
