Chapter 26: Signals
Fuery sat back, brushed a trickle of perspiration from his forehead and surveyed his work. Their team had commandeered Capitol Radio's backup antenna, and he had just finished installing the transmitter and receiver that would allow them to broadcast on the military's Building Maintenance channel. The original channel's range didn't extend far past the Central Command complex itself, but his modifications would expand the signal to cover the entire city. He would use that ability to coordinate communications among the resistance forces from here.
"Did you adjust the modulation?" his friend Teague, the technician who worked for the radio station, piped up nervously from over his shoulder. It was the third time he had asked.
"Doing it now," Fuery responded patiently, making a few adjustments to a diode. His friendship with Teague had gotten the team an audience with the station's producer. The scoop of the century, they had promised. All we need is an hour of airtime and the use of your backup antenna. Once they had learned that the First Lady was involved, the producer and his staff had jumped at the offer. It was only now—Fuery could see the evidence written on his friend's face—that they were beginning to question just what kind of bargain they had made.
He finished his adjustments, then picked up the handset and spoke a test message: "Commissary, do you read?" For now they were still using code names; it was a live military channel, and until the battle started, Building Maintenance personnel might be listening in.
"Commissary here," came the response. It was Falman, holed up with the Northern Division troops in the basement of the Armstrong mansion, which had been left unsupervised as Wrath's agents searched frantically for Hawkeye. Weapons and equipment had already been smuggled in piecemeal over the last few months. "We're just assembling a few last pipes. How are things going in Sanitation?"
"We're all set," Fuery responded. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "The crew is just about to start mopping."
"Affirmative—and good luck."
Fuery swallowed anxiously; in a few minutes, all hell was going to break loose. Beside him, Teague remained silent, his face ghostly white. He looked for all the world as if he'd just found himself at the center of a hurricane, with no idea how to get out. Buddy, thought Fuery, I know just how you feel.
Inside the broadcast booth, Breda clutched his sidearm and stood guard by the door. Besides their own team members, a dozen East City support troops guarded doors, windows, and other weak points throughout the building, but he was still jumpy. They had waited until late morning to ensure that they had the largest possible audience for their announcement. Once Hawkeye started speaking, they wouldn't have much time.
The radio announcer was a pudgy balding man with a beard and glasses—Grayson something, Breda vaguely recalled. "Good morning, people of Central City," he began the broadcast. "As you know, we awoke today to the shocking news that Lieutenant Riza Mustang, First Lady of this great nation, had gone missing from her home despite heavy security, and was believed to have been kidnapped by terrorists. We also learned that all communication to East City, the current location of Führer President Mustang, has been mysteriously cut off." He licked his lips, clearly relishing this moment. "But now, we have an exclusive Capitol Radio update. The First Lady is right here in our studio, safe and sound, sitting across the table from me at this very moment! Ma'am, would you please confirm that for our listeners?"
Hawkeye was sitting stiffly in her chair, one hand anxiously stroking Hayate at her side. She leaned into the microphone hanging over the table and spoke, softly and haltingly. "Good morning. My name is Lieutenant Riza Haw—uh, Mustang. And I wasn't kidnapped. I left home of my own free will."
Over her shoulder, Breda swore silently. She was nervous. You can do this, Hawkeye. Just stick to the script.
"And she has come to our station this morning with an urgent announcement," continued the announcer. "We at Capitol Radio don't know what it is, but we've been told it's something that the entire country needs to hear." He paused. "Ma'am, would you please continue?"
Hawkeye nodded, quietly cleared her throat, and resumed speaking. "At this moment, there is a plot underway to overthrow the Führer President. The coup is being carried out by generals at the highest level of Central Command." Her moment of stage fright seemed to have passed, and her voice grew stronger and more confident. "The Führer is not aware of this plot. The conspirators include his closest advisers, who have been deceiving him for some time. They've cut off communications with East City to keep us from warning him."
Reassured now, Breda nodded to himself, silently reciting the words of the script as she continued. It had to be this story. Wrath might be cruel and ill-tempered in private, but his public face was all Roy Mustang: young, handsome, brave, and utterly charming. The people loved their new Führer President, and would naturally rally against anyone they believed to be threatening him. And they loved his shy, pretty wife just as much. Did she know that? he wondered. While she was locked up in that house and blockaded by bodyguards, had she had time to notice how the society pages of the newspaper gushed over her, how women copied her clothing and hairstyle—the number of hairclips he'd seen in West City alone!—and how there had even been an uptick in young women applying to join the military? The First Lady was famous, she was admired, and she was loved. Most importantly, she was trusted. That was why it had to be her on that microphone.
"We don't have much time," she continued briskly. "They'll be sending soldiers here to silence me. They'll tell you that I'm insane, or that I've been misled by traitors, or that I'm a traitor myself. But it isn't true. All I want is to protect my husband and the people of this country." She paused. "These are the men I know of who are part of this treasonous plot," she went on. "Lieutenant General Gardner. Brigadier General Clemin. Brigadier General Edison…" She continued listing more than two dozen names she had gleaned from eavesdropping on Wrath in his study.
She was in full control now, her shoulders square, her voice calm and self-assured. Breda felt himself smile. As a soldier, Hawkeye had always displayed determination and a quiet confidence in her own abilities. But in the past eight months he had watched her assume a new quality: command. He knew she had taken up the responsibility reluctantly, and at first she had worn it uncomfortably, like an ill-fitting coat. But with each passing hour, the fit was growing better.
"These are very serious allegations," the announcer responded when she had finished. "Do you have proof? How did you learn of this plot?" The words sending soldiers here had spooked him, it was clear from his face, but his voice remained completely calm. He was a professional.
"The plot was uncovered by Lieutenant General Grumman and Major General Armstrong, of the Eastern and Northern Divisions respectively. They have both moved forces into Central City to protect us." Hawkeye leaned closer to the microphone, her voice growing more urgent, more earnest. "And now this is the most important part of my message. I am calling on every soldier in Central Command who loves this country to help us bring down the traitors. Do not obey the orders of your commanders to attack us!"
Breda was grinning now. She was selling it. Their plan was going to work—he was certain of it.
Out in the hallway, Havoc stood guard by the second-floor window, anxiously surveying the street below as Hawkeye's words echoed through the building. While he couldn't see her from his vantage point, he could clearly make out Breda, who was nodding and smiling to himself as he listened to his script unfold. Havoc wished he shared his teammate's confidence. His right hand clutched a detonator, and beads of sweat dripped down his face and neck. The troops from Central would be here any minute.
The team had blockaded the streets around the radio station building before dawn. They were in the middle of the warehouse district—a lucky break—so there was little danger of civilian casualties from the explosives they had planted. But that didn't make him feel any better about the possibility of using them on their own comrades. His mind flashed to his old academy buddies who'd been posted to Central Command. Hutchison, LaMonte, Finley…would they be here today? Would he have to face them in battle?
He would find out soon enough; from down the block came the rumble of military transport trucks. They were here. His heart pounded as he watched the trucks pull up to their blockades and stop, watched the soldiers begin to spill out and form up for an assault, turning the sunlit street into a sea of blue uniforms. Havoc used his left hand to signal to Breda: two platoons—no, three. Breda's smile faded as he nodded grimly, then made the same sign in Hawkeye's direction.
Havoc cursed in frustration. Three platoons was three dozen men. He didn't recognize any faces, but they were probably all ordinary schmucks just like him, guys who'd signed up for the military with no idea who was pulling the strings, following orders they had no idea were evil.
Hawkeye's voice still resounded, continuing her plea for the Central Command troops to stand down. "I recognize that this is a difficult situation for you to be in. As a soldier myself, I understand that better than you'll ever know." The broadcast was playing not only throughout the building, but outside it as well, through a loudspeaker that could be plainly heard by the attacking soldiers. "So here is what I'm asking: if you can't bring yourself to join the North and East, if you're confused and don't know what to do, then do nothing. Point your guns toward the ground and step back. If you don't fire your weapon, our forces will not attack you."
As the troops stood in formation with rifles aimed forward, Havoc watched many of them begin to crane their necks, paying attention to her words, until their commanding officer emerged through the lines and yelled something at them. Chastened, the men resumed staring down their barrels. But wait—it couldn't be! He recognized the commanding officer. It was Major Bertels, his marksmanship instructor from the academy. He'd been a tough instructor, but a good man—they'd all loved Bertels. Havoc's stomach tightened at the thought that he might have to kill his former teacher. Or vice versa.
The loudspeaker echoed: "Trust in me, as a fellow soldier and the Führer President's wife. Allow us to defend the country from these traitors!"
Every second seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. In the street, the troops stood waiting in formation. Bertels was holding his right arm up in the air, palm bladed; when he pointed his hand forward, it would be the signal for the troops to lay down a blanket of fire and rush the building. And then Havoc would blow the detonator.
"More is riding on your actions than you can possibly imagine," Hawkeye continued. "The future of Amestris—your future, and future of everyone you love—will be determined by what you do here today. Your choice, as an individual."
Havoc's heart still hammered against his ribcage, his mind numb with dread. But her words, and her cool and steady voice, reassured him somehow. He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed. Awful things might happen here today. He might have to kill good men, and he might die, together with his teammates—his friends. But whatever happened, they would get Hawkeye out first. She would get to Central Command and save the Colonel, and he would stop the world from ending. And it would be all right. Even if the rest of them died, if they could save all those civilian lives, and Mustang and Hawkeye along with them, then it would be worth it.
Through the loudspeaker, Hawkeye's voice rang out: "Soldiers of Central Command, we are not your enemy!"
The eternal seconds continued to grind by. But somewhere amid the numbness, Havoc realized that the men still weren't moving. Bertels still held his arm up in the air—he was hesitating. More agonizing moments passed. Then very slowly, Havoc watched him close his palm into a fist and lower his arm. He turned his head and barked an unknown order at his troops. And one by one, they began to point their guns at the ground.
Havoc nearly choked with relief. It had worked—they were standing down! He had never grinned so hard in his life as he flashed a thumbs up to Breda, who grinned back and passed the signal on to Hawkeye. Impossibly, they had won a reprieve. The Central Command troops—at least these troops, at this moment—were giving them a chance.
The relief and happiness inside the broadcast booth was palpable. It was also short-lived. Not two minutes later, a white-faced technician quietly walked up to the announcer and handed him a piece of paper. Grayson scanned it quickly, swallowed, then turned to his microphone.
"We have just received a shocking piece of news via North City," he reported somberly. "The Führer's train was attacked on the way back from the Eastern HQ. There was an explosion on the railroad bridge over Lake Optain, and the train was destroyed." His voice caught, but he cleared his throat and continued. "No one has been able to locate the Führer. Everyone aboard is presumed to have been killed."
Breda felt a sudden sensation of numbness as the blood drained from his face. No. It couldn't be—it just wasn't possible. The Colonel was dead? When they were so close to saving him? That just couldn't happen—! His eyes met Havoc's out in the hall, saw the same shock and disbelief mirrored back at him. They traveled next to Hawkeye, who sat in stunned silence, eyes staring unfocused at the air in front of her. Oh god, he thought with his heart sinking, Hawkeye…
After a few moments the announcer continued speaking, filling the silence. "To those of you listening, I regret to tell you that the First Lady has just learned of this tragic news along with the rest of us." He added softly, "Ma'am, I am so sorry."
She was shaking her head slowly. "I knew this would happen," she mumbled. Breda heard her add in a whisper, "Grandfather, you goddamned fool," as her head sank into her hands, hiding her face. After several moments, her shoulders began visibly shaking.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" the announcer asked gently. "I know I speak for all of us when I say that you have our deepest condolences—"
Hawkeye jerked her head back up, ignoring him. She was laughing. "You idiots!" she shouted, a nearly maniacal gleam in her eyes. "He's not going to die that easily!" She stood up so abruptly that she knocked over her chair behind her. "He's coming here, now. We need to be ready," she called over her shoulder to Breda as she strode out of the broadcast booth, motioning for Havoc to follow them.
"Ma'am!" the wide-eyed announcer called after her. "Ma'am…!" The producer was signaling frantically for him to say something, anything, to continue the broadcast. Finally Grayson turned back and grabbed the microphone.
"Uh, what you've just heard is the sound of the First Lady, uh, becoming hysterical and fainting in shock at the news of the attack on the Führer President!"
Havoc had to move quickly to keep up with Hawkeye as she marched out of the building. The news about the Colonel's train had hit the rest of them like a punch to the gut, but she had dismissed it with a wave. "Wrath can outrun bullets. There's no way something like that could kill him," she had snapped impatiently. But he could tell that she had been badly rattled by the news. Even if she really wasn't worried for Mustang, she must at least be concerned about her grandfather. There had been no news about him thus far.
They had taken half the East City support troops with them, but left their teammates behind: Fuery to coordinate radio communications, Breda to manage public relations, Hayate to stand guard for homunculi. Now they approached the Central Command troops, waiting by the barricade with guns still pointed at the ground. Havoc's eyes met those of the commander, who gave a silent nod of recognition at his former student. "We need to get through," Hawkeye informed him calmly.
Bertels hesitated just a moment. Then barked "Yes, ma'am!" with a crisp salute—merely a courtesy, since he outranked her—and added, "Lieutenant Mustang, you have our sincere condolences at the loss of your husband." The rest of the men gravely copied his salute. She swallowed, nodded somberly, and returned the gesture.
They think she's the Führer's widow, Havoc mused as the troops parted their formation to let them pass. If they hadn't believed her words before, the news of Mustang's death had surely convinced them. And she was the bereaved wife of their fallen, beloved commander...right now, she could probably ask these men for anything and get it.
The thought had occurred to Hawkeye as well. When they were through the line, she turned back to address the Central Command troops. "Thank you for letting me pass," she said clearly. "You understand now that we're facing a grave threat, from evil men who want to destroy this country. My husband died trying to stop them." She took a slightly ragged breath. "Now I'm asking all of you to help me see that his death wasn't in vain. Will you do that for me?"
A muted chorus of "Yes, ma'am!" emerged from the crowd. "What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?" Bertels asked.
She pointed back at the radio station building behind them. "The traitors in Central Command sent you here to kill the people inside this building. When they realize you haven't followed those orders, more troops will come. But these people need to be protected at all costs." She paused. "Will you protect them?"
"Yes, ma'am!" shouted the Central City troops with more enthusiasm, no hesitation evident now. (When the hell did she get so good at this? marveled Havoc.) Hawkeye spoke a few more words of gratitude and encouragement, and the rest of them moved out, the teammates behind them guarded by three dozen new protectors.
They had survived the first skirmish, but as the Promised Day wore on, things would only get more dangerous. As they marched on toward Central Command, its citadel just coming into view in the distance, one fact in particular worried Havoc. "Hey, Boss," he said to Hawkeye, "I hope to hell you're right about the Colonel still being alive. But if he is...what's going to happen when Wrath gets back here, and everybody figures out we're not really on his side?"
She looked straight ahead, her eyes fixed on their destination. "We'll do what we always do," she replied, her mouth set in a grim line. "We'll improvise."