by Vicki Hinze
“I mean, there’s nothing in this grid to find.” Frustrated, Gregor swept a hand over his eyes. Already they burned from the recycled air. Search and Rescue teams were too far south, and the grid Mark had radioed in was empty. Westford or Dean must have screwed with the coordinates. “Sweep it twice and then head north.” If Westford and Liberty had survived, Gregor would bet his arsenal they were on the move.
“Yes, sir. Any chance of me getting another team out here?”
The only other tactical team available was the one guarding Linda Dean and her children. Gregor had considered killing them and moving the Bravo team to the swamp but had decided to hold them in reserve. A few hostages to counter backup collateral generally proved an asset. “I’ll work on it.”
The phone rang—Gregors private line. He answered with a curt “Yes?”
“You blew it. She’s not dead.”
Austin Stone. Terrific. “We haven’t yet verified that.”
“I just left a briefing. From the inferences I heard, she’s alive.”
“But still in the Everglades without transport, correct?”
“Purportedly”
Austin’s tone hardened with a bitterness Gregor had long since associated with the man, but there was something new in it, too. Something discomfiting: authority. “Tactical has been out there since the explosion. They’ve swept the grid twice. We’ve lost two men, but—”
“She’s not dead.”
“I said we’re on it, Austin.” Gregor chilled his tone.
“Let me make this simple. Unless you want to be held accountable for starting a world war, you’d better make sure the only way she leaves that swamp is toes up in a body bag.”
A cold rage snaked through Gregor. “Do not threaten—”
“Threaten?” Austin interrupted. “You can bet your arms sales to Peris and Abdan it’s no threat. I’ll do it, Gregor. I’ll blow it all straight to hell.”
The crazy bastard had convinced him. “There’s a wide gap between threatening a disaster and creating one, Austin.” Gregor stared at the swamp monitor. “If you actually launch the missile, World War III is inevitable. Need I remind you that what you’re proposing to do will have severe long-term consequences? The responses will be immediate and proportional. The majority of life on this planet will be eradicated. In a war of this magnitude, there is no refuge, Doctor, and no one wins. I strongly recommend you harness your emotions and—”
“You’re almost right. I have refuge. You, however, do not.”
Damn scientists. He would never again, never again, team up with one of them on a campaign. “Unless you’ve arranged for a space-shuttle ride, you don’t have refuge. Launch that missile, and you’ll be killing yourself, too.”
“Will I?”
Cold chills crept up Gregors spine. “What have you done?”
Austin ignored the question. “I want her dead. Do you hear me, Gregor? I want her dead.” He slammed down the phone.
What Austin had done, Gregor wasn’t sure, but he felt certain of two things: He wouldn’t like it, and he’d be blamed for it.
He flipped down the lip mike and radioed Patch. “ET, do you copy?”
“Yes, sir.”
A few lives, or many? Gregor had no option but to choose—though really there was no choice to make. Austin’s call had determined fate. ET needed a backup team in the swamp. The only team Gregor could free up and get on-scene quickly was the one holding Linda Dean and her two kids. To do that, the Deans would have to die. “A backup tactical team will be en route shortly”
In the twisted chaos only a damn scientist could create, Austin had made it clear that he had done something to place Gregor in an impossible position. Now, from a continent away, he had to stop World War III—he glanced at the countdown board—in about thirty-three hours.
And unless Senator Cap Marlowe was suddenly stricken by an attack of conscience that forced him to put his career on the line, which wasn’t damned likely, Gregor had to stop it alone.
To save his own skin, he could no longer risk indifference.
Lady Liberty had to die.
First-Strike Launch: 33:10:02
Thirty-three hours, ten minutes, and two seconds until Armageddon.
Cap paced his office, barely resisting the urge to wring his hands. What should he do? President Lance had briefed him on the security-breach crisis, and he still couldn’t believe it. How had PUSH or Gregor Faust managed to bypass the most advanced secure-system devices on the planet and infiltrate A-267? Less than three dozen people even knew the top-secret facility existed. Some corrupt bastard had to have aided them. That was the only logical explanation.
With the sensitive intelligence and technology housed at A-267, one leak from one person is all it takes to throw this nation into crisis.
Apparently PUSH or Faust had found the one. But had that person been recruited by agreement or by force? Better than anyone, Cap recognized that someone working on the site might have unknowingly been inducted. It had happened to him. It could happen to anyone. When Austin had returned the key and told him it was a launch key to an intercontinental ballistic missile, he had nearly had a stroke. What he hadn’t had was doubt. His key was the key to the Peacekeeper missile at A-267.
He glared at his wall safe, secretly wishing that he could glare long and hard enough to make the key locked inside it disappear. Whatever action he took, he was personally screwed.
When Lance had briefed him on the security breach, he should have told the president about receiving the key. It would have cost him the nomination, but the nation might have been spared this monumental crisis. Lives might have been saved. Yet even if Jean took the fall for him, claiming that Cap had ordered the report be prepared and filed and she hadn’t done it, he would suffer the same end result: public humiliation. With Lance’s stand on integrity, he’d jerk Cap off every committee with or without teeth and launch a major campaign for his immediate impeachment. The country was sick of scandal. By the end of day one, Cap would be forced to resign. After thirty years of service, he would be forced out of office and off the Hill in disgrace.
Cap couldn’t stomach that. He hadn’t worked his entire life to end his political career like this. He had earned the right to better. Swiveling, he looked at the wall behind him. It was full of awards and plaques, trophies and commendations—a lifetime’s worth. But if he didn’t do something about this crisis, they would all be forgotten. Every good thing he had ever done would be forgotten. If recalled at all, he would be remembered as the senator who had made a deal with the worst terrorist in the world. It wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t. The black cloud of doubt would form over him for not reporting the key. Whoever had sent it would see to it that the cloud stayed.
Could Sybil Stone have done it?
God knew, Cap had done plenty to make her miserable. But he hadn’t gone public about Austin Stone’s vasectomy which would have proven Sybil a liar on so many public stances she pretended to embrace. If he had done that, then maybe she would have retaliated with this. But without it… ?
Probably not, though she had to dread him disclosing it every day of her life. There was solace in that.
Lance would hear him out; he was a fair and reasonable man. But Cap would be crippled by the scandal and less than effective, if not assassinated by some zealot with a misguided sense of duty who felt compelled to protect the country from him.
“Damn it.” Cap dragged his thumbs, pinching the bridge of his nose. There had to be a way out of this that wouldn’t destroy him.
He sank into his desk chair. He had been labeled wily and cagey for as long as he could remember, and he considered both fair assessments. He had a flexible mind and he had always respected it. Over the years that flexibility had generated a lot of creative solutions. He could find a way out of this that didn’t include disgrace or involve impeachment.
Certain of it, he closed his eyes, pulled himself into a deep state of relaxation, and let his th
oughts flow. Fast and furious, they streamed through his mind in disjointed bits, some of which he didn’t have time to grasp fully before others crowded in and overtook them. He worked his way through this static and his thoughts slowed down, became more logical and sensible. Finally a solution came to him that wasn’t rooted in fear.
He was chairman of the Armed Services Committee. He had access to A-267. Because it was a classified site with an extremely limited need-to-know circle, he pulled inspections on the site himself.
So pull an inspection, Cap.
Yes. He’d pull an inspection. Thinking through the details, Cap went to the safe and removed the key. His direct line rang, and he paused to take the call. “Marlowe.”
“Remember the key,” a man said.
Cap’s blood ran cold. “Why are you doing this to—”
The line went dead.
Cap hadn’t recognized the man’s voice, but his message had come across crystal clear. His suspicions about Faust and the key had to be accurate. From all Intel had provided about PUSH, its leader wasn’t a strategist capable of planning an attack of this magnitude with this high a level of security. The president might be convinced PUSH was responsible for the crisis, including Sybil Stone’s supposed death, but Cap wasn’t convinced. This entire situation reeked of Gregor Faust and his methodology.
Blowing out a steadying breath, Cap forked his fingers, then rubbed a trembling hand over his chin. What he needed was a diversion. He dialed the phone and when Sam Sayelle came on the line, he launched into creating one. “Do you have an ID on Stone’s man at the Wall yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Get on the stick.” Cap stared at the key, laying on his desk near the green bar light, and damned it for glinting so innocently when it controlled his future. “I really need it, Sam.”
“Top priority.”
“Thanks.” The intercom buzzed and Cap switched lines to respond. “What is it, Jean?”
“Just a reminder, Senator. Mr. Shottley is due in thirty minutes.”
Mr. Shottley was a code for Cap’s insulin shot. “Thanks. I’m going to be out of the office for a while.”
“But you’ve got—”
“Cancel everything for the rest of the day” He thought of President Lance’s briefing. After Saturday midnight, there could be nothing left of D.C. Nothing but devastation, destruction, and despair. “Reschedule for next week, if possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forty minutes later, Cap nodded at the gate guard outside A-267, drove down the fifteen miles of deserted road to the site, and then parked near the first of three hangars. They looked innocuous, like a cluster of gangly metal guppies tucked under a blanket of thick foliage. The cover did help keep them out of the line of sight of prying eyes and probing satellites. All three hangars were constructed of concrete and steel and painted a drab army green. Each hangar, like the site itself, had restricted access, but two of them had little else in common with the one on the extreme left. Two housed offices. The left hangar housed only an elevator that descended twenty feet underground to Home Base, the command and control center for the Special Detail Unit, and the missile.
Cap locked his car, keyed access to the command hangar, and then walked down the empty corridor to a bio-metric scanner that made an iris comparison check on both eyes to verify access approval. He rested his chin on its soft pad and then pressed his face against its screen. The authorization light turned from red to green, and he recalled Jean’s “Mr. Shottley” reminder.
He had forgotten to give himself an insulin injection before leaving the office. Well, damn it, he was here now and he wasn’t driving all the way back to handle it. Mr. Shottley could wait a couple hours.
Cap took the elevator down. He’d never liked coming to A-267; the lack of windows bothered him. So did knowing he was so far belowground. The place looked clinical— bare white walls, ceilings, and floors—but pleasant enough, and it was certainly in better condition than the Pentagon, which was threatening to fall down around everyone’s ears. Yet every time Cap entered A-267, he suffered the strongest sensation that he was entering a tomb. No matter what mind games he played with himself or how he directed his thoughts, he never had been able to shake off that feeling.
A bell chimed and the door silently slid open. He stepped out, on to the white-tile floor of an area below the hangar commonly referred to as the outer rim. Two steps off the elevator, he paused at the main security station, where a thin-faced man sat reading the regs book.
Exactly two dozen military members and unofficial government employees worked at the site. All of them were tested weekly on regulations and procedures that affected every aspect of the site. If a military member answered any question posed to him incorrectly, he was debriefed and reassigned to a less critical position elsewhere. His PCS— permanent change of station—orders were cut within twenty-four hours and he was gone. A civilian, unofficial government employee was fired on the spot, debriefed, and comfortably sequestered in a remote location somewhere for the rest of his or her natural life. That location was outside Cap’s need-to-know loop, though he suspected Commander Conlee knew it. At first, Cap had considered the rigid policy stance unreasonable, but then he had learned what was at A-267. The United States could afford no mistakes. Not here.
“Senator Marlowe.” The duty officer jumped to his feet. “We weren’t expecting an official visit from you today, sir.”
Cap let his gaze drop to the man’s name badge, then to his rank. “No, you weren’t, Lieutenant Gibson. I’m pulling a no-notice inspection of the site.”
“Standard or extensive, sir?”
“Extensive.” A standard inspection wouldn’t let him get beyond the outer rim, where offices, a lounge for coffee breaks, and Home Base were located. He had to get into the inner hub, the circular core of the site. One man sat inside it at the launch-control station twenty-four seven. If ordered to strike, he would key the secure device and operate the launch controls for the Peacekeeper. Only he had the key. And only he and the president had the code, which changed every twenty-four hours. At least, that was the normal process. With Faust’s infiltration, who knew the process or how it worked now?
“I’ll notify the commander of your arrival, sir.”
The last thing Cap wanted was to be distracted by the site commander, Donald Conlee. The man was good at his job and decent company, but what Cap needed was a little privacy. “This is a no-notice inspection, Lieutenant. Notify no one. When I’m done on the premises, I’ll return here. You can inform Commander Conlee then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cap turned away and began his inspection, hoping Gregor Faust hadn’t done anything here that the U.S. engineers couldn’t undo, but unwilling to bet on it.
Gregor Faust watched the senator move methodically through A-267 on the command center monitor.
Six months ago, on Austin Stone’s last official visit to A-267, he had installed the new DNA-dependent, secure-system equipment but had delayed activating it. He also had installed his latest creation: a minute remote-viewing system he claimed was virtually undetectable by current technology. Gregor had doubted that was possible, particularly when the device had been installed in a top-secret site, but time had passed and his bird’s-eye view had not once been interrupted—including during both standard and extensive security sweeps. Austin would make another fortune on this system, likely an even greater one than he had made on the DNA secure-system device.
On the wealth scale, Austin trailed Bill Gates. But he might catch him by marketing this new system. Not that the true net sales or income from it would ever appear on any IRS form or corporate quarterly report. The lion’s share of sales would be on the black market.
In six months of observations, Gregor had learned a lot about A-267 policy, procedure, regulations, and operations. But even more valuable to him, he had learned an enormous amount about American mentality. Unless Lieutenant Gibson was unconscious, he would note t
hat Cap Marlowe looked as guilty as hell of something, and that look didn’t correlate with a no-notice inspection. If Cap were anyone but a United States Senator, Gibson would note it and deduce that the man had another reason for being at A-267. But because Cap was a senator, Gregor predicted the lieutenant would ignore his instincts.
Despite all the corruption, scandals, ineptitude, and indiscretions that had permeated the U.S. government throughout its existence, Americans still believed in their politicians.
Many politicians had earned that faith. Actually, most of them had. But many had not. Cap Marlowe toed the line. He had accomplished remarkable things that had required courage and grit, and he had pulled off some things that were blatantly down and dirty, like his personal campaign against Lady Liberty.
Cap combed the building, including Home Base’s command center—the one place in A-267 where Gregor did not have remote-viewing capability because Austin did not have access to the area to plant the system.
Twenty minutes later Cap stopped at the security checkpoint at the entrance to the inner hub. This station wasn’t manned. Human interaction was unnecessary. Few had the access to pass the manned checkpoint in the outer rim. Anyone inside the outer rim had already been screened.
Two machines were attached to the wall. Cap inserted his ID card into the left one, rested his chin on the pad, and then pressed his face against the flatbed scanner. Its sensors would read a print of his irises and only God and Austin Stone knew what else.
Inside, Captain Mendoza, a lean man with narrow eyes and a hawklike nose, sat behind the launch desk, facing the board of controls. He and Cap exchanged a few words, then he passed the senator the log book.
“I need an activity report, too,” Cap said.
On the computer, Mendoza generated an activity report. Moments later it fed through the printer. The captain retrieved it without leaving his seat—a policy breach that violated two separate regulations—then passed the report to Cap.