From pyramid!voder!apple!bloom-beacon!mit-eddie!rutgers!bellcore!faline!thumper!ulysses!att!ihlpa!fish Mon Feb 27 09:39:20 PST 1989 [Synopsis: fugitive Spike uncovers a nuclear conspiracy in Detroit. He destroys the evil Ames Morgan, a high-ranking member of the crumbling Corporatist government, but not before Morgan starts the countdown of a 30-kiloton, suitcase-sized H-bomb. It cannot be disarmed. Spike escapes with the Bomb and elicits the aid of Anticorporatist leader Senator Joseph Crisp in getting the Bomb to the only place it can be exploded in relative safety: the vast salt mines under the city of Detroit. After a spectacular auto chase, Spike and the Senator part company near the mine's entrance. Spike must yet engage the Security force guarding the mine. There is now less than two hours left before the Bomb explodes. In the year 1998, the fate of millions rests in the hands of one man...] --- The Senator sped away and I mounted the bike. I could not try the main gate, it was too heavily guarded. I would have to get onto the grounds some other way and find my way to the entrance to the mine shaft. Though time was of the essence, I would have but one chance to do this right, so I took my time in careful preparations. I blacked out my face and donned black gloves. I taped together the remaining MAC-10 magazines and tucked them into pockets in the fresh black jumpsuit I'd obtained from the panniers. Six grenades hung from my belt. I scouted the perimeter of the grounds until I found a stream bed which ran under the chain-link fence. It was a tight squeeze, but I got through, dragging the bike after me. The area into which I emerged was isolated and poorly lighted. The mine shaft was located on the other side of the complex. To get to it, I would have to cross an open field and wind my way through huge piles of salt, thence across a brightly lit yard. It was not going to be easy. A force of about 25 CFGM security men guarded the mine complex, and they had by now been alerted that I was in the area. I rode through tall weeds parallel to the fence for a ways, staying out of the open until I could cross the field to the salt mounds at the narrowest point. I spotted a jeep patrolling the perimeter service road, sweeping a spotlight over the fence. I laid the bike down in the weeds and kept low. The light did not come near, but the jeep stopped when the guards passed the breach in the fence. One of them got out to look more closely, shining a flashlight along the stream bed. He abruptly drew his pistol when he spotted the crushed weeds that betrayed my arrival. I could wait no longer. I tossed a grenade at the jeep and opened fire on the flashlight. Both the grenade and the burst found their targets, but I no longer had stealth to my advantage. I sprinted hard for the salt mounds, darting between two of them as I caught sight of headlights flickering and heard gunfire from several points. The salt mounds covered an area of three or four acres in an irregular pattern. It would be easy to get lost winding my way through the maze -- on the ground. I shifted into a granny gear and started my way up the steep slope of a large mound. I took a spiral course around the mound, staying just out of sight of the grey Plymouths that prowled through the grounds. At the mound's crest, I had a much better view. I could see the entrance to the mine and was able to pick out a course through the salt mounds. Below, three cars systematically searched the mound area, supported by half a dozen men with flashlights. I would need a diversion. I readied a grenade and observed the progress of one of the security cars. As it drew behind one of the mounds adjacent to mine, I lobbed the grenade over the top with a throw a major league outfielder would have been proud of. I don't know if it hit its mark, but after it went off, the searchers converged towards the area of the blast. I rolled down the mound at a reckless speed, fighting to keep the overweight bike under control. As I neared the bottom, I caught sight of a lone searcher. He swung his flashlight in my direction; too late, I was on him. There was no time for either of us to shoot. I ran the bike squarely towards him, with all the momentum of my quick descent behind me. At the last moment, I pulled back on the handlebars and the front wheel left the ground to catch him perfectly in the chest. The bike skidded crazily as he went over, but I kept it up. No gunfire followed as I made the first turn through the course I'd scouted. The last hurdle was yet ahead. Emerging from the salt maze, I sprinted for the entrance to the mine. To the left and right, two grey Plymouths sped towards me. I took aim at the windshield of the nearest, fired, and watched the car spin out of control. The other car spat fire from the passenger's window. I felt something thud solidly against my flack vest and nearly lost control of the bike. Bringing it around, I fired again, off balance, but I hit one of the Plymouth's front tires. As the driver fought the wheel to regain control of the car, I opened up on the passenger's window and the return fire fell silent. I reached the entrance to the mine shaft as the security force began to regroup near the salt field. I rode straight into to the elevator, slammed the doors, and threw a switch which I hoped was for "down." Reassuringly, the car began to sink. Several minutes passed before the elevator lurched to a halt. I wondered what awaited me outside. I threw the doors open, submachine gun ready, but saw only a few startled, unarmed men. I bolted through the door, into their midst. "Everybody into the elevator! You have to get out of here!" To convince them, I fired a burst into the air. Salt rained down from the high ceiling. The frightened workers packed the elevator. "Is this everybody?" I snapped. "We're all there is. Most of the mine's automated, now. We're just a maintenance crew, going off shift" "Then get the hell out of here! And don't bother punching out. You won't be working here tomorrow." The doors closed and the elevator began to rise. The adjacent shaft would bring the other elevator down, teeming with armed men. I would not be able to deal with them directly. I set one of my satchel charges at the bottom of the shaft and rigged it to explode when the car contacted it. In the mean time, I had more urgent business to attend to. I saddled up and headed down a tunnel. There was a fairly steep grade; good, I was getting deeper and deeper into the earth. After perhaps half a mile, I reached a large chamber at the tunnel's end. I did not know if this was the deepest part of the mine, but it would do. I detached the suitcase-Bomb from the bike, set it down, and examined my surroundings. This was evidently a center of operations. There were tracks and conveyers leading through various tunnels, and there were crude offices set up. That's where I found this terminal. The mine, like everything else these days, is run by computers. This one has an operating system I'm familiar with, and it was fairly easy to get an outside link to access the main computer at Bikopoulis Imports. I brought up my diary file and began typing. This, you understand, will be my last entry. I heard the satchel charge go off a few minutes ago. It had to be done in order to seal the mine shaft and contain the blast. It also leaves me with a problem. That was the only elevator. When the Bomb detonates in thirty-nine, make that thirty-eight minutes, Spike Bike will be no more. Men like me are, I suppose, an inevitable consequence of harsh times. But when the times change, we are out of place in the World. I am a killer. The men I've killed were trying to kill me, but they're still just as dead. The Bicycle Act freed them to act on their basest instincts, but it allowed me to do the same. I hunted them, baited them, and killed them without compunction. Some kind soul may argue that my motives were noble, that the ends I achieved were for the greater good, that what I did was for the benefit of everybody who claims the right to ride a bicycle. I told myself all of this often enough. But the quest for justice isn't enough to make a man kill. I am driven by a rage that is neither good nor evil, but animal. Again and again I have felt it boil over, surge through my nerves, and burst forth in a stream of fire and lead. It sickens me now. I am sick of rage, sick of killing. It is well that it should end here. Do not lament. I have longed for this day. Although it is an end for me, it is the beginning of everything I've fought for. But the fight isn't mine any longer. It must be won with law and order, not guns and bombs. Make it happen for me. I never made it to the Olympics. Let Spike Bike go out a winner. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I've still got a pint of Jack Daniels stashed away on the bike somewhere. I've got about half an hour to kill, and I could sure use a belt. It's been a long day. --- [Epilogue: It was Spiro Bikopoulis's wish that his diaries be made public in the event that something happened to him. Had I not known Spike, albeit briefly, and seen the climax of this adventure unfold, I might not have believed the fantastic accounts recorded on the diskettes that were sent to me by the Bikopoulis Family. I am honored that he chose me to be among the first to read it. The nuclear blast was well contained by the deep mine. There was considerable structural damage from the shock, but little radiation escaped, and Detroit-Windsor has remained safe for habitation. Casualties were minimal, and an international crisis was averted, thanks to Spike's sacrifice. We do not know, as yet, how widespread the Morgan conspiracy was. We are searching for Morgan's accomplice, the man who, posing as Spike Bike, stole the Bomb that was almost the end of us all. He should be able to tell us much, if we ever find him. President Iaccoca resigned in lieu of impeachment. We decided not to pursue criminal proceedings against him, in deference to his age and satisfactory evidence that he knew nothing of the Morgan affair. Vice President Turner has resigned as well, although there are charges pending against him. The Cabinet has, of course, been dissolved. House Speaker Trump has resigned in scandal, leaving the job of U.S. President to me, as President Pro Tempore of the Senate. It is with great reluctance I have accepted the Office. Spike was right; I'm going to need some luck. The new Congress has a staggering agenda. The Corporatists did an incredible amount of damage, and it will take more than a decade to overcome it all. Yet Spike was wrong about a few things. The first Act of the new Congress was a unanimous resolution to repeal the Bicycle Act of 1992. The legislation left in its place provides for a nationwide effort to improve the roads to better accommodate bikes, and outlines severe penalties for motorists who engage in "willful acts of hostility" against cyclists. Attached to the bill was a resolution, passed by acclimation, granting a general pardon to Spiro Bikopoulis, a.k.a. Spike Bike, for "all crimes and misdemeanors, known or otherwise," committed during the years the '92 Act was in force. It also ordered that a medal be struck in his honor. However, the Cities of Detroit and Windsor have upstaged us. On an artificial island in the center of the Detroit river stands a statue of a man astride a mountain bike. Twenty feet tall, it is appropriately larger than life, as was the man it honors. Respectfully Submitted, Joseph Crisp President of the United States July, 1999] -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish