He walked quickly through level four, taking in the buttressed steel on the rock walls and the computer rooms, the personnel working madly to maintain and enhance the reality being created in this place.
Here was a system, an entire state of mind, based around the assumption of nuclear war with the Russians and the wonderful possibilities thereafter. From his casual conversation with Dick Bartello at dinner last night, he'd gleaned that much. How this nuclear war was to be initiated, the man didn't say, but Largent knew it somehow tied up directly with the space shuttle program, including the Challenger flight. Hal Brognola and his man, Bolan, had been right from the first.
His priority at the moment was in communicating with the outside. The beeper, useless four hundred feet underground, was back in his assigned room. He had lain awake the previous night trying to reach a decision about communicating, knowing that he ran the risk of blowing his cover. Oscar Largent, though dedicated and capable, was not one to risk his life foolishly. But this was worth it, and in the final analysis he had reached the only decision possible for him. And once it was made, he'd spent the rest of the night making peace with himself.
There had been a radio channel left open for him in case he had to try to make contact. They had played down that aspect, hoping to be able to track him more safely with the beeper. So much for safety.
The fourth level was the hub of the entire operation. There were emergency barracks, extra food services and recreation rooms. This was the command center, with all of the communication and control systems. These people simply sat here, anxiously awaiting the end of the world so they could take over. He had yet to hear anyone say exactly what it was that would be left to take over.
The ceilings were high to avoid feelings of claustrophobia, and the area was aglow with neon lighting. The architecture was minimal, but he guessed that a place designed to take a direct hit of twenty megatons had something other than interior decoration to recommend it.
The communications center was a glassed-in bunker set in the middle of the main chamber of level four. Largent walked quickly through a connecting passageway from the auxiliary barracks area, and made his way across the smooth concrete floor to stand in front of the booth.
Communications was capable of handling any kind of transmission known to man, from laser Morse pulse to shortwave to microwave satellite. In many senses it was the core of the operations center, for in an age of communication and information retrieval, GOG was set up to be the most sophisticated info in/info out system on the face of the planet. He couldn't help but wonder who had thought of all this — and what philosophy stood as its top end.
He paused at the glass door of the bunker and took a long breath. He had no way of giving a position to try to save himself. The best he could hope for was enough time to warn Brognola of exactly what was going on down here. After that, he figured he wouldn't be alive long enough to worry about anything else.
He pushed through the door, jets of compressed air blasting him from all sides to keep him clean in a dust-free environment. Then he passed through another door to stand inside a glassed-in half acre of communications gear. E-2s and E-3s moved busily around the room and on the catwalks that rose above the equipment. They were running condition-red system's checks.
The first thing he'd need would be a side arm, then ten minutes with a radio operator. He'd play it by ear after that. A second lieutenant stood near an open radar box, watching repairs. True to condition-red regulations, he was wearing combat gear, including a weapon. As Largent started toward the man, he saw Bartello walking across the chamber toward the booth with a general he didn't recognize. They were followed by a small party of SPs armed with M-16s.
Largent eased off. He couldn't fight them if he went for the side arm now, so he decided to try a bluff. He'd attempt to get through to the outside later.
The group approached the booth, Bartello and the general entering while the honor guard took up positions outside.
"Good morning." Largent saluted the men. "I've just been looking over the operation. Impressive."
"This is General Cronin," the colonel said, and Largent shook hands with the man. "He runs the show down here."
"Nice to meet you...Captain." Cronin smiled strangely at Largent. "Perhaps you can clear up a little problem we've been having."
"I'll do my best."
"Good." Cronin reached into his jacket pocket. The man was very tall and distinguished looking. He moved slowly, fluidly, with great authority, the expression on his face rock solid, never wavering.
He removed the transmitter pen from his pocket and held it up in front of Largent's face. "Our gear picked up a signal from within the compound, and we triangulated it to your pen, Captain. Can I call you Norm?"
Largent said nothing, refusing to play the game with him.
"Now, don't get all quiet and sullen," Cronin said, a darkness settling onto his face. "We've got quite a bit to talk about. You see, Dick here thinks we should just kill you and be done with it. But me, I think we should discuss this like gentlemen and get you to admit your error and help us out."
"You're making a mistake," Largent said, taking his best shot. "I brought that pen down here to test your security systems, and you've passed with flying colors."
Cronin and Bartello looked at each other, smiling, then Cronin turned back to the Fed. "Actually, your pen isn't the only problem. You see, Norm Michaels and I were stationed at the Pentagon together for three years. And partner, I've never seen you before in my life."
Largent stared at the man, drowning in the pulsating waves of darkness that emanated from his eyes.
* * *
The airport at Phoenix was no more than a way station to Bolan, a pit stop during what was going to be a long and complicated journey. He and Julie strode through the busy terminal, feeling dirty and conspicuous as they worked to pick up the pieces of GOG's broken trail.
They had spent the morning driving back from Gila Bend. Bolan was tired, worn down both physically and emotionally. Looking out for himself and Julie was a taxing experience, made worse by the almost maniacal intensity of the opposition. This was no small operation they had stumbled upon. It was a huge and well-financed machine that seemed to be running on its own internal rhythms.
Julie had been quiet on the trip back, but not morose, as if something positive had happened at the test site. Perhaps she was still in shock, but it didn't seem that way. There was a lightness there, a playfulness. Didn't she understand that the problems were just beginning? Whatever the reason for her good mood, it was helping to keep him in gear, so he decided not to question it.
"I'd really like to find a ladies' room and freshen up a bit," she said, running a dirty hand through matted hair.
"Sure. We could probably stand something to eat, too."
They were passing a small coffee shop, with a bank of phones just outside and a duty-free shop butted up against it. "Look," he said, "I need to call Hal right away. I'll use one of these phones, then we'll grab a bite and some coffee."
"I'll go find a rest room and just meet you back here," she said.
"Great. Whoever finishes first orders the coffee." He dug through his wallet for the phone card. "You did good back there."
She kissed him quickly on the cheek. "We make a pretty good team," she said, then drifted off.
She found a bathroom a little farther down the hall. As she passed another bank of phones, it crossed her mind to call her people and tell them what had happened. It was obvious to her now that Bolan couldn't be what they feared he was. She and Bolan had found a secret base where research that had nothing to do with new jet engines was going on, research that was outside their knowledge.
She decided to wash up first, which she did, the whole time thinking about how to tell Bolan about her involvement in this whole business, once she contacted her people. She feared he'd be angry when he found out she was not quite as innocent as she'd pretended. But once she explained, she was s
ure he would understand.
She washed quickly, not bothering with makeup, then combed her hair, amazed at the number of burrs that came out on the brush. One thing she knew for sure: she'd had her fill of the great outdoors for a while.
When she came out, she stood in front of the phones for a minute, debating about placing the call. Then she realized she'd have to take care of it sooner or later and decided it might as well be sooner. She dropped a quarter in the slot and called the 800 number.
"This is Lady Madonna," she told the sleepy-sounding person who answered after three rings.
There was a slight pause, then the voice said to hold while they transferred the call. Thirty seconds later a voice she recognized as Reilly's came on the line. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "You were supposed to stay in regular contact."
"I… I didn't get the chance," she said, taken back by his tone. "Besides, I wanted to tell you that I'm sure Bolan is innocent. He…"
"Innocent, is he?" Reilly repeated derisively. "Well, I want to tell you that your boyfriend just destroyed a key government installation, and—"
"What do you mean? You told me that the only experiments being done using liquid electricity were with jet engines. And yet I saw, and operated, a laser cannon."
"Just who the hell do you think you are?" the man answered. "Should the government contact you every time it decides to work on a new secret project? Your orders were very simple. You were supposed to stay with Bolan and keep checking in...and those orders were sent down precisely to avoid what happened at Gila Bend this morning."
"You should have told me!"
"You're a security risk," he shot back. "Certainly you can understand why we couldn't tell you the whole story. Okay, so we've got it and the Russians are getting it while their man is busy destroying all the good work we've done. Obviously things have gotten out of hand on your end. Your usefulness as an undercover operative is about finished."
"Great with me," she said. "I never liked this stupid job anyway."
"Good," he snapped. "Your final assignment is to terminate your subject. Then we'll lose you in the witness-protection program somewhere."
She felt sick to her stomach. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean," she said softly. "I want you to spell out exactly what you want me to do."
"Kill Bolan," the man said without hesitation.
"I don't want to kill Bolan."
"Come on, Julie," Reilly cajoled. "This is business. The man's an enemy agent. Do it now before he does it to you. More to the point, perhaps, do it now before we do it to you."
"You're threatening me?"
"Honey," he answered, his voice controlled, cold, "you helped him last night. You're standing on the ragged edge of treason right now and if you've drawn your lines there, a great many people will be after you. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," she said quietly.
"You have a job to do. For ten years you've let the government support you in luxury, and now we're calling in the chit. Just take care of the son of a bitch and get out of the way. We'll never ask you for anything again. Your country needs you, Julie. You can't deny that need."
"No," she practically whispered, "I guess I can't."
"That's the spirit. You've still got the pill?"
"Yes."
"Just put it in something he's going to eat or drink and stand out of the way. When it's done, simply walk outside, get a cab and drive to a hotel. Contact us from there. Okay?"
There was no response.
"Okay?"
"Okay," she replied, choking slightly. "Will it work in coffee?"
"Quick as a wink."
"All right," she whispered. "I'll take care of it."
* * *
Mordechai Leland sat at the large. Pentagon conference table and watched Mark Reilly talking on the phone. He appreciated the man's loyalty more than he could say, but found him untrustworthy on other levels. Reilly talked a lot, but seemed unable to deliver the goods when push came to shove. He had sworn to control the woman, which he didn't do, and had sworn to tie up the Washington loose ends, which he couldn't do. Everything the man became involved in seemed to leave a messy trail of bodies.
And now there was trouble. Michaels had been taken, probably on Brognola's orders, and had been replaced by a ringer from the Justice Department. It wasn't the end of the world, but it was more trouble than he wanted right now. He looked at his watch — 900 hours, just a day away from success.
Reilly hung up the phone and smiled at Leland. "We've taken care of that end."
"What, exactly, did we do?" Leland asked.
"The woman is going to terminate Bolan."
"We can depend on that?"
The smile faded somewhat. "I'm ninety percent on that."
There was a knock on the door, Leland nodding to Reilly to answer it. Reilly opened the door to Kit Givan, who stood there with a cup of coffee in his hand.
"Morning, General. Mr. Reilly."
"Sit down, Kit," Leland said. "We've got some rethinking to do."
"What happened?" Givan asked, brows drawn.
"Michaels got snatched," Reilly informed him. "Probably those people in Justice. They sent an impostor, but Cronin fingered him."
"Will he talk?" Givan asked.
Leland shook his head firmly. "Norm would die first."
"What about the guy on our end?"
"We're interrogating him now," Reilly said. "He's not talking, either, but we figure we're hidden well enough down there in the Everglades that we won't be found."
"At least in the space of the next twenty-four hours," Leland said. "And that's the beauty of our operation. The computers are locked in at this point. It's go no matter what they try."
"Even if the computers are shut down?" Givan asked.
Leland nodded. "The missiles are set. The only thing that could stop them would be a legitimate access to the GOG program and a legitimate recall."
A slow smile spread across Givan's face. "So in other words, we're the only ones who can stop it."
"That's about it," Leland concurred. "If they got Michaels, I feel they must have us all under surveillance. I think you gentlemen should lose your tags and make your way down to Florida for the fireworks. Reilly can arrange it through his contacts."
"And what about you, sir?" Givan asked.
"They can't move on me without evidence," Leland said with confidence. "I'm too important. That's why they've maintained distance. We got their bugs out of my offices, so there's nothing to hear. The orders they've intercepted aren't complete enough to fill in details, so there's nothing there. I'm having lunch with the President this afternoon, at which time I'll see if he's got any suspicions, but frankly I doubt if he knows anything. No. They can't touch me without evidence, and there's no way for them to accumulate the evidence before the morning. We'll proceed with caution, but proceed we will. By tomorrow morning, gentlemen, we should be well on our way toward making this country strong and great again."
He watched them leave then, Reilly all worked up and excited, Givan with military stoicism, two old-fashioned throwbacks to patriotism and responsibility in a world of expediency and compromise. He had slowly watched the demise of America over the past twenty years, when art had somehow become pornography and relaxation meant drug-sodden orgies. America no longer had a heart. It seemed to have nothing to live for.
But America would live again. Oh, there'd no doubt be recriminations over the deaths, but eventually everyone would realize that the quick death of a few hundred million were nothing in comparison to the slow death that was already gutting the citizens of the country. And after he reconstructed what was left of the country, organizing this great land to once again thrive under solid Christian ethics and military leadership, he'd be a hero.
Maybe the greatest hero ever.
* * *
The man's eyes were open wide, his eyeballs like hardboiled eggs with rosetta tattoos as he stared, upside down, at Hal Brognola from
what had once been his dining room table.
"Project GOG is bad," the interrogator said into his ear. "It has to be stopped. General Leland…"
"The general's here?" Michaels said, his voice slurring through the effects of nearly twenty-four straight hours of questioning under sodium Amytal. "I want to see the general."
"You can," the interrogator said, keeping his voice even and non threatening, almost conspiratorial. "But before he comes here, he wants you to tell us the access code to Project GOG in the master computer. He wants to shut it off and can't remember the code."
"No, no, no, no, no," Michaels said, shaking his head violently. "GOG is good. GOG will make a new world...a better world."
"But we can't make it work without the code."
"No code. No, no, no. No code."
Brognola turned from the dining room, walking into the living area, where a squad manned the phones. A tired Bob Ito was nearly asleep at the computer terminal he had claimed for his own three days previously. Gunnar Greggson was moving around the table, talking quietly to the people on the phones and making notes on a pad.
Brognola sat at the table, taking a cigar out of his breast pocket to chew on. Greggson came and perched on the edge of the table. "Things are happening," he said. "Our quarry have flown the coop."
"All of them?"
The man nodded. "All the important ones. They've been managing to lose us and disappear."
The chief Fed ran a hand over his face. "That means they've got Oscar for sure. Dammit! I knew I shouldn't have sent him out there alone."
"What else were you going to do?" Greggson asked. "The opportunity presented itself. You had no choice. Oscar knew the odds when he went into this."
Brognola smiled grimly. It didn't help.
Loud, slurred singing came from the dining room.
"How about laughing boy?" Greggson asked. "Anything useful from him?"
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