Dr. Chambord frowned again. "But you said you told me"
La Porte sighed, bored. "I simply affirmed what your bourgeois conscience wanted to hear. You still have that silly peasant fear to dare the ultimate. Take my advice, Doctor. Always dare. Who dares, wins, my poor Chambord. Even the English and the unfathomable Americans sometimes see the truth in that."
Dr. Chambord was an introverted man, unaccustomed to expressing emotion. In fact, he was uncomfortable with both tears and laughter, a characteristic of narrow feelings that his wife had occasionally complained about. He missed her now especially. But then, he had missed her every day since her death. He had always told her that the mind was an infinitely complex system, and even if he did not express his emotions, he felt them as deeply as she.
As these thoughts occurred to him, he found himself calming. It became clear what he must do.
He knit his fingers together in front of him and said earnestly, "You'll murder outright at least a half million with the ICBM. The radiation will kill untold additional millions. It will lay waste to" He stopped and stared.
The general's pistol had risen again, and now it pointed at Chambord's heart. The general had a haughty expression on his face, and Chambord had a sudden impression that the tall chair on which he sat was no chair. It was a throne.
Outraged, Dr. Chambord cursed. "That's it! You intended this all along. That's why you picked Omaha. It's not just because it's the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Command and a more important military target than even the Pentagon. Or because it's a hub of information services and telecommunications industries. It's because it's the Heartland, as they call it, where people think of themselves as safe because they're buried in the middle of the continent. The whole United States thinks of the Midwest as safe. With one blow, you show that the safest people in the safest place are unsafe by turning their 'heartland' into a wasteland, while you cripple America's military. So many deaths just to make a point. You're a monster, La Porte! A monster."
General La Porte shrugged. "It's necessary."
"Armageddon." Chambord could barely breathe.
"From the ashes, the phoenix of France of Europe will rise again."
"You're mad, La Porte."
La Porte stood, his size and personality again dominating the armory. "Possibly mad, Doctor. But unfortunately for you, I'm not crazy. When the authorities arrive, they'll find the bodies of Mauritania, of Captain Bonnard, and of you."
"You'll be gone." Chambord's voice sounded dead even to himself. "It'll be as if you were never here. They won't know you're behind all this."
"Naturally. I couldn't hope to explain the use of my castle in your horrible plot, should you and Captain Bonnard survive. I appreciate all your help."
"Our dream was a lie."
"No lie. Just not as small as you thought." The general's two pistol shots exploded in the vaulted room. "Good-bye, Chambord. You've served France well."
Eyes open, the scientist fell from his chair like a deflated toy.
At the same moment, a violent fusillade of gunfire seemed to come from everywhere. La Porte stiffened. The Crescent Shield had been at the other end of the castle. How could they be so close now?
He thundered toward the door, gesturing to the two Legionnaires inside the armory to follow. In the corridor, he paused to bark orders to the two waiting sentries, and all five bolted down the stairs.
"Back!" Jon warned over the din and flying bullets.
Noise no longer mattered, so they raced back along the corridor toward the spiral stairway that led up into the east tower. In the confined space of the stone walls, the firing behind them sounded as if it came from an army.
Above them, the door to the armory slammed open, followed by a shout in rapid French. Meanwhile, from below, there were new noises. Booted feet were pounding upward. The Legionnaires to the rescue.
Jon, Ranch, Peter, Marty, and Thérèse dove into two empty rooms on either side of the hall.
Breathing hard, Jon cracked open his door and saw Peter inch his open, too. They watched La Porte, out of uniform, and four Legionnaires burst past, heading toward where the Crescent Shield's cutting-out party was still firing, attacked by Legionnaires, Jon guessed. General La Porte bellowed an order that was lost in a thunderous fusillade.
Jon and Peter slid out into the passage, followed by the others. They tore onward to the tower stairs while in the distance behind them the Legionnaires and the Crescent Shield continued to battle.
Jon in the lead, the four others following, they climbed swiftly. At the top, they paused and looked carefully all around. The door to the armory stood wide open, and there were no sounds from inside. The shadowy landing with its weak electric lights and narrow windows built for the use of archers was abandoned.
"What does it mean?" Marty wanted to know.
Jon motioned for silence. With hand signals, he sent Peter and Randi into the armory. "Marty, Thérèse, and I'll cover the stairs," he whispered.
Almost instantly, Randi was back out. "Everybody, come in here." She beckoned them inside. "Hurry."
Marty dashed in after her, looking for the prototype, with Thérèse right behind. Jon brought up the rear, watching for danger. They stopped together, stunned by the sight of Emile Chambord on the carpet beside his desk. He was pitched over onto his face, as if he had fallen forward from his chair.
Thérèse covered her cheeks with her hands. "Papa! Oh no!" She ran to him.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Marty followed and patted her shoulder.
Thérèse sobbed, dropped to her knees, and rolled her father over. There were two bullet holes in his chest. Blood matted his shirt.
"Is he alive, Jon? Tell me whether he's alive!"
As Jon crouched beside her, he looked at his watch. "Mart! The computer. It's less than two minutes to midnight!"
Marty shook his round head as if to clear it. "Okay, Jon." He fell into Emile Chambord's chair and went to work on the keyboard.
Peter ran toward the door. "Let's go, Randi. Somebody has to watch their backs."
Nodding agreement, she tore after him. Their dark clothes faded into the landing's long shadows.
Jon checked Dr. Chambord. "Looks as if both of the bullets entered your father's heart. I'm sorry, Thérèse. He died instantly."
She nodded and wept.
Shaking his head, Jon stood up and hurried around to where he could stand behind Marty and be available if needed. At the same time, he surveyed the old armory, with its medieval armaments, shields, and armor hanging from the stone walls and leaning in corners. The room was vast, with quite a bit of furniture, all of it old, heavy wood. The ceiling was high, and the electric lights inadequate to thoroughly illuminate it. In fact, it appeared to him that fully three-quarters of the big room was without light. The fixtures were only in this section near the door. Still, Jon could see far enough back to make out stacks of wood crates, which he assumed held ammunition.
"Faster, you monster," Marty exhorted the silent apparatus. "Resist the master, will you? You cannot defeat the Paladin. There, that's better. Zounds, you slippery beast. Aha! You can squirm, and you can flee all you want, but you can't hide from" He jerked and was silent.
"What is it, Marty?" Jon asked quickly. "What do you see?" He stared at the numbers, symbols, and letters as they scaled the screen, line after line. Although he could do rudimentary programming, he had no idea what any of them meant.
Marty bounced in the chair as if it were a hot seat. "Snake! Dragon! You cannot defeat the hero, the knight, the warrior. Calm there now there ah! I have you, you filthy jabberwock, you. Oh God!"
"Something's happened, Marty. Tell me what it is!"
He looked up at Jon, his sturdy face pale. "Emile picked an operational Russian ICBM. It's armed. Nuclear armed. And now it's launched!" He gasped as he returned to translate the information on the screen. "The missile's in the air. It's gone!"
Jon's chest tightened. His mouth went dry. "Where's i
t going, Mart? What's the target?"
Marty blinked. "Omaha." He stared at the monitor and then back up at Jon, his face a mask of misery and alarm. "We're too late."
Chapter Forty
Air Force One, Landing in Omaha
Alone in his private quarters, the powerful throb of the four jet engines in his ears, President Castilla stared at his reflection in the window as Air Force One's wheels touched the runway in a solid landing. Soon he and his people would be safe in the heavily fortified underground bunkers of the U.S. Strategic Commandor STRATCOM as everyone called it here at Offutt Air Force Base. STRATCOM was the beating heart of the country's defense, charged with the planning, targeting, and wartime deployment of strategic forces. While NORAD monitored the skies, STRATCOM coordinated any retaliatory strikes.
He adjusted his gaze and looked out the window: Yes, an Air Force One-style jet was speeding down another runway, about to lift off. One of the fleet was always stationed at STRATCOM for emergencies. Now it would be a diversion, attracting the attention of any enemy searching for him.
The president heaved a deep sigh, feeling guilty for the lives that were put in peril to protect him and his office. He turned from the window. As the big jet slowed and began to taxi, he picked up the microphone of a large short-wave radio.
"How are you holding up, Brandon?"
From his bunker in North Carolina, Vice President Brandon Erikson said, "Good, Sam, good. You?"
"Tolerable. Starting to sweat though. Could use a shower."
"I know."
"Ready to take over, Brandon?"
"There won't be any need for that."
The president gave a mirthless chuckle. "Always liked your confidence. I'll be in touch." He clicked off. As he adjusted his weight uneasily in the chair, a sharp knocking hammered his door. "Come!"
Chuck Ouray entered. His face was a gray mask, and his legs appeared wobbly. "It's STRATCOM command center, sir. The experimental missile defense has crashed. There's nothing left for us to do. We're totally helpless. The chiefs are talking to the scientists, trying to get everything back up, but they're not optimistic."
"On my way."
Chateau la Rouge
Tension filled the dank old armory. Jon peered anxiously over Marty's shoulder at the computer screen. The room was cold and quiet. The only sounds were of muted gunfire and the clicking of the keyboard as Marty frantically worked.
Jon did not want to interrupt Marty. Still: "Can you abort the missile?"
"I'm trying." Marty's voice was hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to talk. He glanced up. "Dam it, I did too good a job teaching Emile. He's done a lot of damage and I'm to blame!" His gaze returned to the monitor, and he pounded the keyboard, searching for a way to stop the missile. "Emile learned fast I've found it. Oh no! The missile's at its apogee halfway across the Atlantic!"
Jon felt himself tremble. His nerves were as taut as a violin string. He took a breath to relax and clamped a reassuring hand on Marty's shoulder. "You've got to find some way any way to stop that nuclear warhead, Mart."
Captain Darius Bonnard leaned against the stone wall, his bloody left arm dangling useless, a wadded shirt pressed against his bleeding side, as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Most of the men were behind a barricade of heavy medieval furniture around the corner. He could hear the general calling orders and encouraging them. Bonnard listened with a small smile on his face. He had expected to die in some glorious Legion battle against a powerful enemy of France, but this apparently small contest might be even more worthy, and the enemy the most crucial of all. After all, this was a clear-cut struggle for the future.
As he comforted himself with those thoughts, he saw a sweaty soldier of the Second Legion Regiment rushing toward him, heading for the barricade.
Bonnard held up his hand. "Stop. Report."
"We found Maurice, tied and gagged. He was guarding the Chambord woman. He says his attackers were three men and an armed woman. The Islamics wouldn't have a female soldier."
Bonnard staggered upright. It had to be that CIA witch, which meant Jon Smith and his people were here. Leaning on the Legionnaire's shoulder, he stumbled around the corner, fell behind the barricade, and crawled to where La Porte was crouched and firing at the wall of furniture at the distant end of the passage.
Bonnard panted. "Colonel Smith's here, General. In the castle. He's got three people with him."
La Porte frowned and checked his watch. It was seconds before midnight. He gave a brief, satisfied smile. "Do not concern yourself, Darius. They're too late" He paused, realizing the number was significant. Four. There should be only three Smith, the Englishman Howell, and the CIA woman. "Zellerbach! They must have brought Zellerbach, too. If anyone can interfere with the attack, it's him." He bawled orders. Then: "Retreat! To the armory. Go!"
As the men raced away, La Porte gazed at his longtime aide, who looked badly wounded. With luck, he would die. Still, it was a risk to wait. He checked to make certain the Legionnaires' backs were turned.
"What is it, mon General?" Bonnard was watching him weakly, puzzled.
La Porte felt a moment of sentiment. "Thank you for all your good services." Then he shrugged and whispered, "Bon voyage, Darius." He shot him in the head, jumped to his feet, and trotted after his soldiers.
Omaha, Nebraska
The president and his entourage were packed into three heavily armored SUVs, speeding across Offutt's tarmac. Inside his SUV, the president's radio crackled. He picked it up and listened as a disembodied voice from the command center reported, "We're not making any headway, Mr. President." The man's tones hinted at barely controlled panic. "The codes keep readjusting. We can't imagine how they did this. It's impossible for a computer to react so fast. "
"Not impossible for this computer," Chief of Staff Ouray muttered.
The president and Emily Powell-Hill ignored him as the radio voice crackled on, "it's got to be reacting automatically to a random pattern like a boxer in a ring. Wait dammit, no"
Abruptly a new radio-transmitted voice interrupted. A woman. "We've got a boogie on the radar, sir. It's a missile. Incoming. Russian ICBM. Nuclear. My God. It's what? Say that again? You're sure?" Her tone changed, grew authoritative and calm, strong and responsible. "Mr. President. It's aimed at Omaha, sir. I don't think we're going to be able to stop it. It's too late. Get down below, or leave the air space immediately."
The first voice, rising now, returned: "I can't get a lock. I can't"
Chateau la Rouge
Abu Auda cocked his head, listening. The electric wall lamps had been shot out, and the corridor was in smoky twilight. Slowly he arose behind the barricade, and his desert-trained eyes studied the opposing wall of furniture.
"They're gone, Khalid," he told Mauritania. "Inshallah!" he celebrated.
The men of the Crescent Shield, weary and wounded, shouted a cheer and clambered over the barricade.
Mauritania raised a hand for silence. "Do you hear it?"
They listened. For the moment, there was no gunfire anywhere in the castle. But there was the noise of running feet. Boots. It had to be the Legionnaires of the French general, running not toward them, but the other way toward the keep.
Mauritania's cold blue eyes flashed. "Come, Abu Auda, we must collect the rest of our men."
"Good. We'll leave this accursed castle to fight another day against the enemies of Islam."
Mauritania, still wearing the tattered bedouin robes he'd had on since Algeria, shook his head. "No, my warrior friend. We don't leave this castle without what you came for."
"We came for you, Mauritania."
"Then you're a fool. For our cause, we need Chambord and his miraculous machine. I won't go without it. We'll find the rest of our men, and then the French general. The pig, La Porte. Where he is, the computer will be."
In the dimly lit armory with its musty weapons and chilly air, Marty let out another raging monologue as he struggled to abort the nuclear miss
ile as it closed in on its target.
On the carpet near his feet, Thérèse Chambord stirred. Ever since Jon had pronounced her father dead, she had sat motionless beside him, weeping quietly, holding his hand, almost in a trance.
Now as Marty suddenly resumed ranting, she lifted her head, listening
"You cannot win, you unenlightened beast! I don't care how difficult that diabolical Emile's codes are. I will flay you alive and hang your scaly skin on my walls with all the other fire-breathing dragons I've bested in mortal combat. There, you feeble creature, take that! Yes, there goes another defense take this Aha!"
Meanwhile, outside on the tower landing, Peter and Randi crouched in long shadows, guarding the armory. The air smelled of dust and cordite floating up from below, stinging their noses.
"Hear that, Peter?" Randi asked in her low, throaty voice.
Her weapon was trained on the enclosed stairwell, which descended from here all the way to the castle's first level as well as rising into the east tower above them. There was an opening the size of a large door at each level.
"Indeed I do hear it. Buggers just won't quit. Annoying." Peter's gun was trained on the opening to the stairwell, too.
They listened to boots climbing up toward them, trying to be quiet on the stone steps. As soon as the first of the Legionnaires appeared, Randi and Peter fired. There was a spray of blood as a bullet shattered the fellow's temple. He fell back. There was a sudden scramble as the rest of the Legionnaires retreated.
Peter turned and called an urgent warning into the armory: "Heads up. La Porte's men have arrived!"
"Hurry it up in there!" Randi shouted. "It sounds as if there are a lot more than we expected!"
Thérèse, still seated on the floor beside her father's corpse, seemed to rally. "I'll help." She squeezed her father's hand and rested it on his chest. She laid his other hand on top of the first. She sighed, picked up the FAMAS rifle Jon had given her, and stood. She looked frail and distraught in the armory's musky light.
Jon said, "Are you all right?"
"No. But I will be." It was almost as if a wave of energy coursed through her, and she seemed to gather herself. She gazed down at her father, a sad smile on her face. "He lived a good life and did important work. At the end, he was betrayed by a delusion. I'll always remember him as a great man."
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