Very cute. I guess even psychopathic white supremacist assholes can have a sense of humor.
There were several names on the IRS and deed forms, and so far they all checked out as citizens of the United States with no criminal records. With an organization as large as the Cabal, there was probably no shortage of members willing to lend their name to a dummy corporation.
Bug and his team were working on locating all assets and accounts tied to Natural White so they could be frozen when we made our move. Sometimes you do more to cripple the beast by picking its pocket than putting a bullet in it.
I shielded my PDA from the sun and studied the satellite image of the facility. The central building was, as SAM had said, shaped like a dodecahedron. There was a long, flat road to the east of the building that didn’t seem to go anywhere but was just about the right width and length to serve as a decent airstrip.
I tapped my earbud.
“Cowboy to Deacon.”
“Go for Deacon.”
“I’m in position. Ask the Kid if they use the eastern road as a landing strip.”
“He says yes. The Twins use it for their Lear and he’s seen other small craft land there. He says there is a hidden hangar as well. We’re sending you thermal scans. They’re enlightening.”
My PDA flashed with a new image that showed thermal scans of the basin. The Deck was the hot center point, but there were radiating lines of heat going out in all directions to form a pattern that had nothing to do with what the naked eye could see. One long corridor ran half a mile from the center of the Deck to another hot spot that was nearly as big.
“Ninety percent of this place is underground,” I said.
“Yes.”
He didn’t say anything and I knew that he was giving me a chance to change the mission, to back out or ask for backup. But I didn’t want to do that, because we could not risk tipping our hand too soon.
“Wish me luck,” I said with as much jauntiness as my nerves could afford. “Keep the Kid handy.”
“I’m here, Cowboy,” SAM said.
“Roger that. I’m proceeding inside.”
I took a small high-power camera and clipped it to my topmost buttonhole. I wasn’t wearing full combat rig, no tin pot with a helmet cam. The lapel cam was one of Bug’s toys, and it fed images to a satellite that relayed them to the TOC. With that in place, I crept down the side of the basin in an uneven rhythm. If a tumbleweed moved, I moved. When the wind died and everything stood still, so did I. SAM said that he didn’t think that there were any motion detectors, but there were cameras. He’d written out a timetable that was impressive bordering on obsessive-compulsive. When I’d commented on the precision, SAM shrugged and said that he had a lot of time to himself, then, after a long contemplative pause, added, “Besides . . . the only way to really be alone in that place is to become invisible, and that means staying out of the camera cycle.”
He blushed when he said it, realizing that it sounded weird. Actually, I thought it sounded very sad.
It took forty minutes to make my way to the first camera.
SAM’s voice guided me through the security maze.
“The first camera’s in the dead cottonwood tree twenty yards ahead and to your right,” he said. He and Church were watching my progress via the clip-on camera and a real-time satellite. “Wait for it to swing past, then run. Go straight to the red rocks and stop. Great! Now the next camera is on that pole coming up out of the ground right ahead. It does a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sweep, so once it moves you can follow it almost all the way around. There’s an old wooden picket fence. See it? Drop down behind that and count to fifty, then get up and run to the first building.”
I followed every step, moving, stopping, dropping, running, and made it to the building.
“The doors need swipe cards,” he said.
“No problem, Kid.” I crouched by the door and fished out the first of a bunch of gizmos Dr. Hu and Bug had given me. The unit was the size and shape of a pack of stick gum. I peeled off a plastic strip to expose the adhesive and pressed it gently onto the key-swipe mechanism. Adhesive was safer than magnets in case the unit had a magnetic detector. Downside was that they weren’t recoverable, so there was a timer inside that would release a tiny vial of acid in an hour—just enough to fry all of the internal works—the chemical reaction would also neutralize the adhesive and the thing would fall off.
Once the unit was secure, I tapped in a code and waited. The unit was remote linked to MindReader; it raced through possible code combinations while MindReader’s stealth software instantly erased all traces. It was designed for keycard systems that trigger alarms if the wrong card or a failed card is used too many times.
“Got it,” I heard Bug say over the commlink.
“Copy that,” I whispered, and removed a master keycard that had now received from MindReader the proper code. I swiped it and all the little lights above the lock flashed a comforting green. I opened the door and stepped inside, staying low per SAM’s instructions.
“I’m in a tractor shed,” I said. “No visible doors other than the one I came in and the big garage door.”
“There are four operational modes for the Deck,” said SAM in way that sounded like he was reciting back a training orientation speech. “The Daily Mode maintains a security-neutral appearance for all exterior buildings, but there are a lot of extra security steps to keep unwanted guests out. All secure entrances to the Deck are closed. There’s a Work Mode, which leaves only crucial doors locked, but there would be guards everywhere. Then there’s a Visitor Mode, which is what they do when the Twins come—it hides stuff inside as well as out. And last is the Defense Mode. I’ve never seen that.”
“Let’s hope we don’t. What’s next?”
“Do you see the droplight on the other side of the tractor?”
“Roger. It’s turned off.”
“The security camera is mounted on the ceiling in the left-hand corner. It has a motion sensor, but if you crawl under the tractor and come up on the other side it won’t trip.”
“I feel like I’m in a video game.”
“Yeah, but there’s no reset button,” said SAM. A sober warning that I took to heart as I slithered under the tractor and crawled out on the far side.
“Reach for the droplight. Press the off button twice. It opens a wall panel with a second keycard. The same key code will open this and the next two doors. Don’t try it on the door marked with a white circle.”
I did as he instructed and a wall calendar from a tractor company slid up to reveal a recessed space with another keycard. Cute. My master keycard tripped it and a door-sized section of wall slid noiselessly aside to reveal a sophisticated steel security door. I key-coded it and stepped into a large metal cubicle with another security door. There was a line of pegs on the left side on which hung lab coats in various colors.
“The picture’s fuzzy, I can’t see you,” SAM said. “Where are you?”
“Between two security doors.”
“Are there jackets on the wall?”
“Lab coats, yes.”
“Put on an orange one. That’s for the computer maintenance staff. There’s like a million of them, and they can go almost anywhere as long as they have the right keycards. No one will look twice at you.”
“Works for me.”
I slipped into an orange lab coat, but there was nothing I could do about my camo fatigue pants. I clipped the minicamera to the jacket and hoped no one would notice it. If you didn’t peer too close at it, the thing looked like a slightly oversized button.
I passed through the next security door and walked a long hallway that fed off into rooms marked: KITCHEN, LAUNDRY, DRY GOODS, and a few others. None of these doors had keycard locks, but there were security cameras mounted at both ends of the hallway. No way to bypass them, but SAM said that it was all about what color lab coat you wore. As I walked, I peeled the adhesive off of another of the code-reader doohickeys, and when
I reached the door I surreptitiously pressed it in place.
I faked a sneezing fit and made a show of patting my pockets for a tissue. I pretended to wipe my nose on my sleeve and Bug said, “You’re good to go.”
I removed the newly recoded master keycard and opened the door.
No problems.
I was inside the Deck now.
“The image feed is back,” said SAM. “You’re right near a big hallway that runs the length of the upper level. The staff calls it Main Street.”
The doorway led to a wide central corridor that was packed with people wearing a rainbow assortment of lab coats and coveralls. Most people ignored me. No one cared about my pants or boots: I saw everything from sandals, to sneakers, to high heels. Several people in orange lab coats passed by and they were the only ones who appeared to notice me, but they gave me nods and went about their business.
Then SAM walked right past me.
I was so surprised I began to say something to him, but I immediately clamped my mouth shut. This boy was at least a year older than SAM. He looked just like him, though. Same gap in his front teeth, same soft chin and dark eyes. I tried to turn the camera his way, but there were too many people.
When the boy was gone I discreetly tapped my earbud. “Hey, SAM . . . I think I just saw your brother.”
“I don’t have a—,” SAM began to say when suddenly there were three long, harsh bleats from an alarm system. Everyone froze in place.
I began to slip under my lab coat for my gun, but then a hugely amplified voice blared from speakers mounted in the ceiling, “The Deck is going into Visitor Mode. Please prepare to receive visitors.”
It repeated several times and suddenly everyone was in motion. Wall panels shifted to close off whole wings of the building; scores of staff members filed through hidden doorways that closed behind them so seamlessly it was as if the people had vanished from this reality. The blaring message repeated and repeated.
Then Church’s voice was in my ear: “Cowboy . . . there is a small commercial jet inbound to your location.”
“I know,” I said. “We’re about to have visitors.”
Chapter Ninety-Nine
The Deck
Monday, August 30, 6:13 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 41 hours, 47minutes E.S.T.
Hecate and Paris were all smiles as they stepped down from their jet. Cyrus and Otto were dressed in suits that were ten years out of style, and a stack of suitcases was piled on an electric cart. A tall, austere man in a modern suit stood next to them.
“Alpha!” cried Hecate, and ran to her father. Instead of bowing, she hugged him and buried her face in the side of his neck. Cyrus was momentarily nonplussed, but after a hesitation he hugged his daughter. “Alpha . . . Daddy . . . ,” she murmured.
Cyrus looked wide-eyed at Paris, who adjusted his own expression from a glad smile to one of concern. “Alpha . . . ever since we were attacked Hecate’s been very upset. So have I, as a matter of fact. If the government is sending black ops teams against us then we’re out of our depth. We—”
Hecate cut him off. She had tears in her blue eyes. “We need you. Daddy . . . we need you.”
“I—” Cyrus looked truly at a loss.
“She’s right, Alpha,” said Paris, stepping close so he could pat Hecate’s back. “We’re afraid of losing everything. We’re . . . well . . . we just don’t know what to do. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you’re willing to come to the Dragon Factory. We need to know how to make it more secure, and if we have to abandon it . . . then we need your advice on how to preserve our research.”
Hecate leaned back from the embrace, staring deep into her father’s eyes. “If we have to . . . if you don’t think we’re safe there . . . can we transfer our data to your computers here? We have to keep it safe.”
“We have to keep it in the family,” said Paris.
Cyrus looked at Otto, who raised a single eyebrow. The tall man with him wore no expression at all.
“Why . . . certainly,” said Cyrus, though his voice was anything but certain.
Hecate threw herself back into Cyrus’s arms and wept with obvious relief. Paris closed his eyes as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Alpha . . . Father . . . thank you.”
Eventually they climbed aboard the jet.
Otto Wirths and the other man lingered for a moment before following them.
“Those are his children?” the man asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “Those are the Twins?”
“Yes,” said Otto.
“They’re more effusive than I expected.”
“Aren’t they.”
“Mr. Jakoby brought me all the way out here because of them?”
Otto wore a smile that did not reach as far as his eyes. “We are being played, Mr. Veder.”
Conrad Veder smiled thinly. “No kidding.”
They climbed aboard. Once the jet was refueled, it taxied in a circle and took off for the Dragon Factory.
Chapter One Hundred
The Deck
Monday, August 30, 6:14 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 41 hours, 46 minutes E.S.T.
“The Deck is in Work Mode,” said the voice from the speakers. “All duty personnel return to assigned tasks.”
There was a pause and then, “Supervisor protocols are in place.”
The doors and hidden panels shifted again and the multicolored swarms of people emerged. I found a men’s room and ducked inside. Once I made sure I was alone I said, “What was that all about?”
Church said, “A Learjet owned by White Owl, a dummy company that MindReader traced back to Paris Jakoby, just landed and picked up three passengers. From the satellite image SAM thinks that the passengers were Otto Wirths and Cyrus Jakoby. We didn’t get a good angle on the third man.”
“Swell. Looks like I came to the wrong party.”
“Amazing and Alpha Team are in follow-craft. They’ll assess and take the next steps to find the device.”
“What about me?”
“Your call. If the Jakobys are heading to the Dragon Factory, then Amazing will infil and attempt to secure the device. Once she succeeds, the fist of God in the form of three DMS teams and National Guard units will pound the Deck.”
It was a crappy set of choices. If I left I still wouldn’t catch up to Grace before she caught up to the Jakobys. If I stayed here I might learn something, but I might also get caught.
“Keep SAM on the line and give me a quick tour. I’ll see what I can see, and then I want to collect Echo and follow Alpha to the frat party.”
“Roger that.”
Chapter One Hundred One
In flight
Monday, August 30, 6:36 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 41 hours, 24 minutes E.S.T.
Maj. Grace Courtland sat hunched over her laptop watching a white dot move across the satellite image of the southern United States. The dot kept just inside U.S. airspace, cruising fifty miles north of the Mexican border as it crossed Arizona and New Mexico; then it cut across the Texas midlands and out over the Gulf of Mexico south of Houston.
She tapped her commlink. “Bug, have you gotten through to the FAA yet?”
“Just finishing with them now. The jet filed a flight plan for Freeport, Grand Bahama Island. The FAA have records of the same jet making the run twice monthly for the last few years.”
“That’s it, then. Brilliant, Bug.”
Grace sat back and closed her eyes. It was going to be a couple of hours yet until touchdown, and there was nothing much she could do until then. She’d eavesdropped on the command channel while Joe infiltrated the Deck, and her heart had been in her throat the whole time. Partly because of the oppressively huge stakes they were playing for and partly for Joe.
Joe.
Early this morning, after making love, she had told him that
she loved him. She’d said the words that she swore that she would never say to anyone as long as she wore a uniform. It was stupid, it was wrong, and it was dangerous.
Later that morning she hadn’t said a word to him. She was too embarrassed and too frightened of the damage their pillow talk might reveal in the light of day. And then, of course, everything started happening.
Grace wished she could roll back the clock to this morning so she could take back those words. Or, failing that, to have had the courage to stay all night and talk with him later that morning. Instead she had fled—the one act of cowardice in a life filled with risk taking.
That morning, when she’d said those words, Joe should have given her the pat lecture on the dangers of getting too close to a fellow combatant. It was never smart and it usually worked out to heartbreak of one kind or another, and that included the very real possibility of getting drummed out of the DMS and shipped back to England with a career-ending reprimand in her jacket. She’d never work in covert ops again, not unless she wanted to gallop into battle behind a desk.
She felt sick and stupid for saying those words.
What made it worse . . . so very much worse, was that Joe had said them back.
I love you, Grace.
She could hear the echo of those words as if Joe was whispering them into her ear as her pursuit craft tore through the skies.
I love you, Grace.
“God,” she said, and Redman—her second in command—glanced up.
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