Ground Zero

  That was when he realized what Arthur Bailey had been doing.

  Joe sat straight up in the car seat. His eyes stared at nothing. The sweat that beaded his face from his run dripped, unnoticed, from his nose and chin.

  “That's what he was doing!” he said aloud, to himself. “Why didn't I think of that? I'm so stupid. I'm so stupid!”

  He pulled his seat upright, fumbled for the keys, and started his car. He pulled into the roadway with a scattering of wet gravel, and headed down the road.

  Washington D.C.

  “Ouch, goddammit, you’re hurting me!” Richard yelped as the Secret Service agent carried him over his shoulder like so much baggage. Richard was not small but the agent ran down the hallway at a near sprint. When Richard was dumped into the helicopter he rubbed his arms and glared at the agent, who was panting and red-faced.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, obviously not meaning it.

  Richard was preparing to go into what he fondly considered a high fury but then he saw the wildly waving legs of his younger brother being carried upside down by a very determined looking Secret Service agent. Richard was instantly diverted.

  “That’s funny,” he laughed. “I can’t wait to see Dad --” his voice trailed off as the enormous bulk of his father came shooting out the White House door right after his brother. The President was upright but his feet weren’t touching the ground. His Agents were carrying him, actually carrying him. Richard wondered if he were imagining this. No, his father’s feet really were off the ground. The President of the United States had been enormous before he was elected. Now he was of legendary proportions. The two agents who were carrying him looked very distressed and were trying to hide it. Their grip made the President, at a distance, keep his dignity. But his tiny feet paddled inches above the ground as he travelled faster than a normal man could run. Richard covered his mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “Ha, Steve,” he said, as his brother was shoved in next to him. “You sure looked stupid, upside down like that.”

  “Shut up,” Steve panted. “What about Mom?” he asked his agent.

  “She’s already in the air,” the agent said. The First Lady was on a fund raising trip and wasn’t due back from Florida until the end of the week.

  The President was hustled in the door and Richard made as though to sneak over and sit with him. The agent who’d carried him out briskly reached over and fastened his seat belt.

  “This is going to be a very rough ride,” he said softly and not unkindly. “You’ll be able to sit with him on the plane.”

  The helicopter leaped into the sky with a very nasty jerk, and the engines revved up into a scream. This was not the usual helicopter ride from the White House.

  Suddenly the whole picture fell into place for Richard.

  “Oh my god,” he said, horrified. “Is it aliens?”

  His father was panting too much to talk. Steve, who was a worm, sneered at him. Steve was brilliant. Richard had lived his whole life with a little brother who could think rings around him. And Steve wasn’t a wormy looking geek, either. He was tall and straight and had wavy brown hair and snapping blue eyes. He looked like a little superhero. Richard, who shared Steve’s height and hair and eyes but who was built like Dad, held out hope he would keep from getting quite as fat as his father. In the meantime, algebra and his brother were the banes of his life.

  “Look in the sky, bat brain,” Steve said nastily. “Do you see alien space ships?”

  “No, I don’t, Wormy,” he snapped back. “But if I were President, I’d get out before they hovered over the White House.”

  His agent, Carlton, grinned at him affectionately.

  “So let me in on the joke,” Dad said, having finally regained his breath.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the head of Secret Service said. He was very tall and very grave and, to Richard, looked like he was about a million years old. “There is a potential nuclear threat against the United States...”

  Richard stopped listening. He reached out blindly and Steve took his hand. They sat huddled together as the Secret Service agent spoke of monstrous terrors in his low and soothing voice. The helicopter screamed through the skies over Washington D.C., headed for the airport and Air Force One.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Colorado Springs Investigations Bureau

  Eileen cursed and hung up the phone.

  “What's up?” Rosen said. He was tilted back in his chair and had a wet washcloth pressed to his forehead. Rosen didn't believe in drugs of any kind and so used the washcloth method to get rid of a headache. He informed Eileen it worked much better than the aspirin she was going to swallow.

  “Uh huh,” Eileen said, and swallowed the aspirin.

  Now she let her head rest against her arm and cursed again.

  “Let me guess,” Rosen said from behind the washcloth. “Guzman still isn't home.”

  “No he's not. It's six o'clock,” Eileen said in frustration. “Where is he?”

  “Could be anywhere,” Rosen said.

  “I’ve got a date tonight,” Eileen said reluctantly. “I've got possibilities of developing a life, here.”

  “With Joe Tanner?” Rosen said. His face was hidden behind the cloth but his voice was reassuringly bland.

  “Yeah,” Eileen said, unsurprised. Dave Rosen was no dummy. She rested a hip against the desk. “We're going to be working together from now on, it looks like. I don't think I should start out by lying to you.” She felt the heat rise in her face. This was difficult for her. She didn't have any brothers, although she had had Owen Sutter, her fellow high school boarder, when she was a child. A new partner always presented some challenges.

  “That's a good idea,” Rosen said. “Not lying, I mean.” He took the washcloth from his forehead and looked over at her. “I don't think dating Joe Tanner is a real swell idea right now. I know all the signs point to Major Blaine, but he's still contaminated by all of this. I hope you don't lose your perspective on that.”

  Eileen took a deep, angry breath, then blew it out again. She shrugged at Rosen, and grinned at him.

  “I guess that's what you're around for,” she said. “Right?”

  Rosen looked at her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and put the washcloth back over his face.

  “Right,” he said. “I wouldn't want to work with anyone else. You know Guzman might be at his house. He might have turned the phone off.”

  “Hey, good idea,” Eileen said. She was a little disconcerted by the compliment. “Good idea. I think I'll drive out there. Let me call Joe first though.”

  She dialed, but there was no answer there either. Eileen frowned and left a message on the machine.

  “Now where could Joe be?” she wondered aloud, then realized he was probably working out at the health club near the Garden of the Gods. Nelson had said he swam or ran there nearly every day. She got her keys from her desk.

  “You got the rest of this?” she asked Rosen. He was still relaxing, feet up on the desk.

  “I got the paperwork going,” he said, and flapped a hand at her. “Go on.”

  As Eileen took her jacket from the hook by her desk, Rosen spoke behind the wet rag.

  “Eileen?”

  “Yes?” she said, shrugging into her jacket and checking her holster.

  “You sure you don't want me to go? I got a funny feeling about this one.”

  Eileen felt a run of goose bumps.

  “No,” she said finally, after thinking for a moment. “We have to get that paperwork out the door. I'll only be an hour at the most.”

  “Okay,” Rosen said. “Just watch your back.”

  “I will,” she smiled at the washrag. “Don't worry.”

  Colorado Springs

  Lucy leaned back in her chair, sighing. She'd had to pass on the plum wine because of her pregnancy, but she'd eaten the other dishes until she was stuffed.

  “This plum wine isn't authentic anyway,” Fred Nguyen said. Fred's wife
Kim was another California Vietnamese with the same mixture of Asian features and beach girl mannerisms. They had two children, a boy and a girl.

  “I'm afraid of labor,” Lucy admitted. “But it's worth it to have a baby.”

  “You’re going to love being a mom,” Kim said, stacking dishes. “Labor isn’t all that bad.”

  Behind her, Fred rolled his eyes.

  “I need to get to my hotel room,” Lucy said, smiling. “I’ve got to get ahold of Colonel Ellison. And maybe Detective Reed, if she’s around.”

  “Sure you can’t stay?” Nguyen asked. He'd already given Lucy his sheaf of documents, which she'd locked in her little travel suitcase. The suitcase was the only CIA-made object in her wardrobe. No poison pens or little laser beam penlights, she'd sighed. The suitcase was aluminum-reinforced and had a tiny acid container in the locking mechanism. If the case was forced the acid would dump and destroy the contents of the case.

  “Cool,” Lucy muttered when Mills gave her the suitcase, on her first business trip.

  “Don't forget the combo,” Mills had said.

  “Or the acid will eat my shorts,” Lucy grinned. Mills didn't laugh.

  “I do have to work,” Lucy said. “Thank you so much for the meal and the company.”

  Looking at the two of them made Lucy miss Ted terribly. She wished she’d talked him into coming with her instead of going to Florida. For whole blocks of time she could make herself forget Fouad Muallah and the Turtkul missile silo, then she would remember. Remembering felt awful. There was nothing she could do, she reminded herself as she shook hands with Fred. Her analysis was complete and that’s all she was, an analyst. She wasn’t some kind of movie hero, to go with guns blazing into Turkmenistan and somehow ruin Muallah’s plans. She just had to wait it out.

  “Good luck with your little one,” Kim said, woman to woman, and they smiled at each other.

  “Take care, now,” Fred called as she walked to her car, and a shiver ran up her spine like the cold touch of a hand. Muallah. Nuclear threat. Lucy held one hand over the rounded swell of her belly as she got into the car.

  Air Force One

  Richard, attached like a round little barnacle to the side of his father, heard the whole conversation. Air Force One was in the air and there were no aliens, just a crazy Arab terrorist who might launch a nuclear missile. Some CIA analyst decided he was going to launch at the USA instead of the obvious target, Israel, and the Russians refused to let the Americans take the missile silo out. Evidently there were some Russian hostages.

  Richard had great problems with algebra but he had a keen grasp for detail. What was most important was that the chances of America getting nuked seemed pretty small. The atmosphere inside Air Force One was definitely more relaxed.

  “Admiral Kane,” Dad said, in his Mr. President voice.

  “Sir,” said the voice over the radio. Kane sounded old, Richard thought. Or perhaps he’d been up for many hours.

  “You’re requesting authorization to enable the Missile Defense System?”

  “That is correct, sir. The sooner the better. If there is a launch and the system is already set up for tracking, we should have a better chance of shooting it down.”

  “More than a chance, I hope, Admiral,” the President said harshly. “For the money we’ve spent.”

  “Mr. President, the system is still in the startup stages. It’s not fully operational. But we feel confident the system will work.”

  “Any chances of the system being compromised?”

  “None as far as we can tell, sir.”

  “Approved,” the President said, and waved his hand to cut the communication’s link. “Now lets get to work on the Russian situation.”

  One of the Generals in the cabin looked quickly at Richard and Steve, then looked at the President. The President glared at him.

  “They stay,” he said, and Richard gave a smug grimace at the General. “As long as they don’t say a word.” Richard pressed his lips together firmly and looked over at Steve, who nodded back. They weren’t going to get kicked out. This was much too interesting.

  Colorado Springs

  Eileen finally found the Guzman residence. Rosen had been here, but she hadn't. It was merely another handsome tract home on a quiet cul-de-sac, a location innocent of any atmosphere. She turned off her lights and coasted to a stop against the curb. Her tires made a mild crunching sound over the few pieces of gravel on the road, and a dog barked a long way away. The thundershowers had stopped and it was almost dark. Water ran in the curbs, drying quickly in the warm evening air.

  The porch light was on. There were lights on in the house, and the faint sound and flickering of a television. Eileen rang the doorbell.

  Silence. The dog barked again, down the street. The slight breeze brought a heavy scent of summer roses. The Guzman’s must have a rose bed somewhere. Eileen rang the doorbell again. She couldn't figure out why she was so nervous. Perhaps because she knew about Terry Guzman. She knew the spider this house was home to. Eileen wondered about Lowell Guzman. Could he not know what he was married to? Was there some deep feeling of relief under all that grief over her death?

  Still no reply. Eileen drew a deep breath. Perhaps Guzman couldn't hear her because he was already dead. Maybe Lowell was the next victim. Eileen walked quietly around the side of the house. Her breath was light and quick. She came to the living room windows and saw the television and the back of Lowell Guzman's head. The head was slack, resting in a big armchair. One limp hand hung around a glass of what looked like Scotch. The arm seemed too still. It looked more than passed out. It looked dead. Eileen felt her whole body prickle with goose bumps. She drew her gun carefully from her holster.

  The back porch door was locked, but the window next to it was open. It took only a moment for Eileen to unlatch the screen and reach through to the door. She stepped into the house.

  Gaming Center

  Joe Tanner took a deep breath and sat down in Art's chair. His terminal keys were dirty, he saw; the F and the J were particularly grubby. For a moment unexpected tears stung his eyes and then he blinked them away. Art was shorter than he was. Joe had to adjust the chair. The workstation screen was dark. Joe posed his hands over the keyboard, fingers lightly touching Art's keys, and pressed the return key with one finger.

  “Login.” The words printed in cold white on the dark screen. Joe had three chances to log into the computer network that controlled the simulations. If he failed three times and tried again, the computer system would appear to let him in, while screaming for help at the main operator console. There was a computer security program that would spill false data to an unsuspecting pirate. By the time the invader figured out that the system wasn't responding quite like it should, the FBI would be knocking at the door. Or, in Joe’s case, he would call the operator and receive a tongue-lashing for his thick-fingered clumsiness, while the operator shut down the emergency alarms. It had happened to some Gamers, but not Joe.

  Joe looked around, even though he knew no one could possibly be there this late at night. Besides, the door to the computer Center was a huge, noisy thing that beeped loudly when opened. Still, he was about to commit a computer crime.

  He took another breath and typed Art's name and password on the screen. Art and Joe always shared their passwords, a secret they told no one else. Sharing a password was a crime, but it made their work easier during the long preparation hours for a War Game. Neither the name or the password appeared, another security feature that Joe found irritating. The workstation seemed to muse for a moment, chewing over his request for access. The screen flashed white, then cleared. He was in.

  Colorado Springs

  Eileen walked down the dim hallway towards the family room, where the TV chattered meaninglessly. A burst of canned laughter tensed her briefly. The sound of the TV, the darkness of the hallway, the absurdity she was involved with, made her feel unreal, as though she were part of some television drama. It was a soothing
and dangerous thought, as though if Major Blaine were to leap from some unknown corner and stab her, Eileen could just wipe the blood away and shoot the next scene. She caught sight of the back of the armchair, the shock of brown hair, and the checkered bathrobe arm as limp as a store dummy draped over a fragile side table.

  The arm moved stiffly, and the glass was brought to the front of the chair. Eileen felt her whole body relax in relief. She wet her lips and entered the room.

  “Mr. Guzman,” she said softly. “It's Detective Reed. Can we talk?”

  There was no reply. Eileen moved in front of the chair and froze in surprise. She faced a nubbled yellow face without eyes or mouth or nose topped by a snarl of brown hair. It took her a moment to identify the face as a foam football, turned on end and impaled on a thin pine board. Beneath the head, settled into the armchair like some malevolent broken toy, a nest of wires and circuit boards moved a bathrobe-clad robot arm towards the football. The glass turned, the Scotch rose smoothly up the side of the glass, the arm moved back towards the table. There was a gentle humming.

  Behind Eileen the television flickered and launched into a loud musical commercial. The seamless face of the robot seemed to mock her. She caught a movement from the corner of her eye and turned to look, tensed in an instant and the sweat turning icy on her face.

  The motion was from a house next door. A woman was in her kitchen. The woman's blinds were up, and the French doors in Lowell's house had the curtains pulled back. The woman was too far away to see an expression, but she could obviously see Eileen in Lowell's living room, and her posture spelled confusion.