“I don’t know. I process lots of ’em,” she said.
“Well, would you remember if such a woman had ever threatened you?” the FBI agent asked.
Threatened. That’s different!
The face of an obviously pampered, snobbish woman holding a fur coat coalesced in her mind, a condescending, demeaning look on the woman’s face as she’d stood to leave. What were the words?
“You’ll regret this!” the woman had said to Doris. “I’ll see to it!”
“What do you mean?” Doris had countered, feeling off-balance and defensive.
The woman had gestured contemptuously to the surroundings of Doris’s tiny cubicle at OPM headquarters and tossed several of her official letters back on the desk.
“You uneducated pig! You can’t even write an intelligent letter, you probably didn’t finish high school, you haven’t understood a single thing I’ve said, and you think you’re going to interpret a court order that determines my financial future? This is a stupid farce! I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to approve this claim in full or pay the consequences.”
Doris remembered getting to her feet with shaky legs, her face contorted from embarrassment and anger. She hated confrontations, and if the woman hadn’t been blocking the entrance to the cubicle, she would have just walked out and left her.
“If I say your claim’s no good,” she had stammered, “then … then that’s that, whether you think I’m smart or not. Rules’re rules. I’m just following the rules.”
It was then that the woman had leaned very close so no one else could hear. Her voice had been a furious hiss.
“You cancel my benefits, you ignoramus, and I’ll cancel you, and make a smoking hole out of this place in the process.”
“You … you’re threatening me!” Doris had said, trying to sound threatening herself and not succeeding.
“No. Not a threat. A promise.”
The woman put on her elegant ankle-length coat and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Doris speechless.
That must be the one they’re looking for!
“Ma’am?” the FBI agent’s voice was in her ear again.
“Huh?”
“I asked you if you’d been threatened?”
“You mean like, ‘I gonna hurt you if you don’t do what I say’?”
“That’s correct.”
“Yes.”
“Yes? In other words, you were threatened by this woman?”
“I been threatened, yes.”
“But was it by Vivian Henry?” the agent asked.
Doris thought about that. Her memory for names was not good, but she did remember being belittled.
Henry. Vivian Henry. Yeah. That’s the bitch. She turned the name over in her mind several times. She remembered the Henry case. The court order had a flaw in it. It had been easy to deny the annuity.
“Yeah. It was Vivian Henry.”
“Tell me what happened and what she said.”
The clerk smiled to herself. Invisible worker bees didn’t get revenge very often.
ABC NEWS, NEW YORK—5:30 P.M. EDT
The hurricane battering the East Coast from New Jersey to the Carolinas was scheduled to take up most of the thirty-minute evening network newscast. Live shots from the coast, along with interviews ranging from meteorologists to atmospheric scientists knowledgeable about global warming, were being lined up as ABC prepared to show the country what was happening in graphic detail.
Something new, however, was pulling away more and more members of the ABC News team. Word had come from the Washington bureau that something unrelated to the weather was presenting the White House with a new crisis.
“The usual denials, of course,” the ABC correspondent in D.C. was saying to his counterpart in New York on a speaker phone as a growing number of people gathered around the main news desk, “but one of our best sources in the White House confirmed the Situation Room is in full operation, and the crisis is some sort of domestic terrorism threat.”
“We have only one source for this story, then?”
“We have two, but they’re only telling me that something’s afoot and it might involve a nuclear threat.”
“How about the other networks?”
“Nothing from the other nets, but we do have a real break. You know how cellular phones can suddenly shift frequencies and leave you listening to someone else’s conversation?”
“Yeah. I’ve had that happen.”
“A staff member for Senator Campbell called up one of his friends here fifteen minutes ago wanting to know what we knew about a nuclear emergency at Patuxent River Naval Air Station. Seems he overheard a frantic call from someone around here to a woman at Pax River, telling her to take her daughters and hit the road north. We’ve checked. There is an evacuation of the base going on, and a civilian cargo plane did make a touch-and-go in high winds there just a few minutes ago, but the official word from the base is the evacuation is because of the hurricane.”
“Is that plausible?”
“Hardly. They’ve had a day’s warning to evacuate and nothing happened. Now that the winds are howling, it doesn’t make much sense to be moving the base.”
“Do you have scanners down there that can monitor the aviation frequencies? We’ve got this Internet stuff about a nuke flying around Washington, and now your report of a civilian bird doing a touch-and-go at the Navy base. I’d sure like to know if it’s still in that area. If it is a nuke, millions of people are at risk.”
“I’m acutely aware of that, especially since I’m one of them! Yeah, we have a scanner, and we’re monitoring. I’ll let you know. What have you found out there in New York?”
A senior producer for World News Tonight slid quietly into a chair at the same table and motioned to the correspondent to continue.
“We’ve got a retired nuclear scientist who worked on the Medusa Project. He’s described the whole thing and says one of his good buds was called a half hour ago by a reporter for The Wall Street Journal who said he’d been monitoring phone calls from that airplane. We’re trying to track the reporter down now, but this thing is beginning to sound both credible and scary. Did you get the summary I sent you by E-mail?”
“Looking at it now. Has the fifth floor made a decision yet?”
The reference to the executive suite in ABC News headquarters caused glances around the table.
“Not yet. They’re standing by. We’re trying to determine the national security risks of this, too. We’ll be ready for a live break-in if necessary.”
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—5:30 P.M. EDT
Vivian Henry had closed her eyes through the worst of the gyrations over the Pax River runway, glad of the cargo strap holding her to the floor of the airplane. When the landing gear retracted and the aircraft began climbing, she realized they were changing plans once again.
She wasn’t close enough to the screen on Rogers’ monstrosity to read the numbers as they ticked by the remaining time, but she was sure that approximately two hours remained. They would need every minute.
Somehow the crew would have to be convinced to get the airplane on the ground so they could escape and leave her there. And she had to prevent any attempts to defuse it, since the results would be obvious.
But until someone came back to check on her, it was just her and the device. She wasn’t supposed to move more than fifteen feet away, and she had no intention of trying.
FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.—5:35 P.M. EDT
Tony DiStefano looked up from the briefing sheet he’d been reading to see Donna standing impatiently in front of him again.
“Gotta hear this, Tony. Right now! The captain of ScotAir Fifty is holding for you on line four, but you’ve got to hear this first.”
“Shoot.”
She slid into an adjacent chair and began talking rapidly, her hands moving in dynamic cadence to her words. “We found a worker at OPM who dealt with the Henry case. Mrs. Vivian Henry threate
ned the worker.”
Tony replaced the briefing paper and sat back, searching her eyes. “How long ago?”
“She came storming into their office to complain about the annuity denial over a year ago, but remember that it was just a few weeks back that her appeal was finally rejected.”
“This OPM person is sure?”
“Oh, she’s sure, all right. Mrs. Henry apparently gave her an earful she’ll never forget.”
Tony let out a deep sigh. “You really believe this woman could pull off all this, Donna? With the airplane and the device and everything?”
Donna nodded solemnly.
“Okay,” Tony said, reaching for the phone. “Vivian Henry now becomes our prime target, and since she could theoretically overhear our conversation, I can’t say anything to the captain.”
“He may already know. She may be holding them hostage.”
Tony leaned toward the phone, but Donna raised her hand to stop him from punching up the line to Scott McKay.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“ScotAir?” She pointed to the phone. “We just heard he can’t get into Pax River. He almost crashed trying. He’s pretty shaken up and wants to go west somewhere.”
Tony DiStefano sighed again as he shook his head and jabbed a finger at line four.
WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT—5:35 P.M. EDT
Pete Cooke had been straining to hear the latest conversation between the feds and ScotAir when the phone in front of him rang. He answered it without thinking, puzzled at the unrecognized voice on the other end.
“Pete Cooke?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
The man identified himself as an ABC News correspondent just as the voice of a young woman came through his earpiece telling ScotAir’s captain to stand by.
“ABC?”
“Yeah.”
“What … why are you calling me?”
“You’re apparently working the same story we are. You’ve got sources, we’ve got sources, the story’s immediate and big, and we’re looking for confirmation.”
“What, exactly, are you talking about?” Pete asked, knowing instinctively the response would be knowledgeable.
“There’s supposed to be a live nuke over Washington, D.C., that threatens computer chips and computer systems nationwide—in addition to possibly killing a few million people in an unprecedented thermonuclear blast. You just talked to a retired scientist about it and he gave you a lot of details. You may have others. Look, Pete. You’re print. We’re broadcast. Your deadline’s tomorrow. Ours is now. We need confirmation, and you may need the same. How about sharing?”
Pete held the receiver with his left hand and began rubbing his eyes with his right. So it had leaked already. How in the world? Had one of his people talked in New York?
The word “confirmation” made its way to his consciousness. “Only if we’re sure,” he had cautioned Ira. Maybe this was the last tumbler in the lock. Maybe ABC could provide the corroboration he needed to be sure.
“Tell me yours first,” Pete said. “If it fits, I’ll share.”
“Fair enough. You have a pen?”
“I do.”
“Let’s start with a strange report from Pax River.”
THIRTEEN
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—5:40 P.M. EDT
Jerry Christian extended his lanky frame as far forward as he could from his flight engineer’s seat and gently placed a bony left hand on the captain’s shoulder. Scott was fumbling with the Flitephone receiver, trying to get it back in its cradle after terminating the latest conversation with the FBI. The severe turbulence was gone, but the Boeing was still bouncing and lurching as it flew westward, away from the hurricane’s worst winds and toward an uncertain destination—the red “unsafe gear” warning lights still shining in their faces.
“Scott, we’ve got twenty-nine thousand pounds of fuel left. That’s no more than three hours’ flying time, depending on where you want to go. Could be a lot less if we stay at low altitude.”
Scott McKay glanced back at the engineer and nodded.
“What’s the word from the feds, Scott?” Doc asked, gesturing toward the Flitephone. “I take it they were less than happy we couldn’t get into Pax River.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. Our FBI friend wants us to fly to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, enter a holding pattern, and wait for that group of experts from Pax River to get there. The Navy’s going to load them in a Navy transport and fly them there. I wish them luck with those winds!”
Scott could see his engineer’s head shaking in his peripheral vision. He turned slightly to the right. “What, Jerry?”
The response was wide-eyed and impassioned. “Why on earth would they choose McGuire? McGuire’s far too close to New York and Philadelphia, and it’s probably being battered by the hurricane as badly as Pax River. Even if that Medusa Effect thing or whatever it’s called isn’t real, my God, we’re flying around with a twenty-megaton thermonuclear bomb that could kill, what, ten million, twenty million? Are they crazy?”
“Obviously they don’t think we’re going to blow up,” Scott replied.
Jerry’s eyes were flaring. “Can you imagine what we’re dealing with here? What if that thing goes off while we’re over New Jersey? The radiation bloom alone would cause millions of cancer and radiation deaths all over the East Coast, birth defects for decades, blindness, and worse. But if it can also produce that Medusa … what did they call it?”
“Wave. It’s called a Medusa Wave,” Scott said.
“Yeah. If it can create that sort of disruption, why would the FBI or anyone else want it even closer to New York banking centers?”
“Good point,” Doc agreed instantly, his eyes still glued to the instruments as he brought the 727 through fifteen thousand and began to level off at sixteen thousand feet.
The voice of the Washington Center controller filled their headsets.
“ScotAir Fifty, I see your level off at sixteen. Turn right now three-zero-zero degrees, and state your intentions.”
Doc looked over to the left seat as Scott picked up the microphone and stopped, his eyes studying Doc’s.
“Suggestions?” Scott asked.
Doc shook his head and sighed. “I guess not.” Scott strained to glance at the engineer. “You, Jerry?”
“No,” the engineer responded. “I don’t know what else we can do but work with them. But McGuire … I don’t understand their logic. Maybe you should call them back.”
Scott requested vectors direct to McGuire and took the new clearance as the copilot banked the aircraft toward the new heading and clicked on the autopilot. Doc ran his large right hand over his partially bald head and turned slightly in the seat, aware that Scott was waiting to confer with them both.
Doc caught himself glancing at the empty jump seat behind Scott where Linda McCoy had been sitting until a few minutes before. Over his protests about the turbulence, she had beaten a rapid retreat to the cargo cabin to check on Vivian Henry as soon as they’d climbed to a safe altitude. Doc suddenly missed her, as if her absence made a frightening dilemma even more lonely. He sensed they all felt her absence as Scott, too, glanced at the empty jump seat.
“I … feel like we’re on some sort of out-of-control ride, guys. The situation is controlling us, but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve worked around nuclear bombs before on aircraft carriers, but I’ve never had a live one strapped to my butt, not to mention the responsibility for God knows how many millions of lives riding, at least in part, on what we do. I mean, what if they can’t defuse it? What do we do then?”
“Let’s review what we’ve got, Scott,” Doc began, counting off the points on the fingers of his right hand. “One, that device back there could be a dud, but neither we nor the government can take that chance. Two, if we assume it’s real, then we’ve got less than two hours and thirty minutes left before it goes off, and if we’re not at least, say, fifty miles away when it does, we’re d
ead, too.”
“Three,” Scott broke in. “None of us knows how to defuse the thing, so we’ve got to do whatever’s necessary to get this aircraft to an expert who knows how to stop the countdown. You agree? I mean, since we can’t dump cargo from a 727 in flight, the only other course of action is to land somewhere and transfer the bomb to a C-141 or a C-130 and drop it at sea to protect the population. If it weren’t for this damned hurricane, there’d be enough time, but, God, every minute we’re flying around the eastern seaboard, we’re almost terrorists ourselves! Can you imagine what the average person down there would think right now if they knew what we had up here over their heads?”
“Wonderful image for our little company, eh?” Doc asked.
“Tell me about it,” Scott replied. “Can you imagine discovering that there’s a plane flying nearby with a small object inside that could burn all the flesh off your body even from twenty or thirty miles away? To hell with the Medusa Effect, a live nuke is enough to get my undivided attention.”
Doc nodded.
“And what happens if, as you pointed out, Scott,” Jerry said quietly, “we get on the ground at McGuire and the experts can’t defuse it or move it? What then? We’ll be the infamous crew who brought it within range of New York and Philly.”
Doc had been leaning to the left over the center console. He moved upright, deep in thought, as Scott gestured toward the rear of the Boeing.
“I know that, if nothing else, they can blow up our airplane with the bomb still in place. Even burning it would work.”
Doc looked startled.
“Blow up …? That defeats the purpose!”
Scott was shaking his head. “It wouldn’t trigger a nuclear detonation. That’s the military way to dispose of a nuclear weapon to keep it from falling into enemy hands. I remember the briefings from the Navy. You burn it or set a high explosive charge to detonate the high explosives inside the bomb. That wrecks the nuclear triggers before anything nuclear can occur. The only problem is, you scatter radioactivity. You’d expose the plutonium core. We’d have to get ourselves well clear of the airfield before they did that.”
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