The president nodded. “Based on what the DNA computer can do, and what little we know of the terrorists, it’s most likely.”
Air Force chief of staff Bruce Kelly’s voice was decisive as he agreed, “No single ICBM from anywhere is going to get through the new antimissile system. I guarantee it.”
“You’re sure they don’t know we have it?”
Around the packed room, the Joint Chiefs and the DCI nodded affirmative.
Admiral Brose answered for them all: “We’re certain, Mr. President.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?” the president said. He smiled around the silent room, but no one looked him in the eyes.
Château la Rouge, France
In the windowless armory at the top of the castle, where chain mail coats hung next to empty suits of armor, Dr. Émile Chambord raised his head and listened. There was gunfire outside. What was happening? Was someone shooting at the castle? The noise was muffled by the thick walls, but still, it was unmistakable.
Abruptly, the computer screen in front of him went blank.
Hurriedly he made adjustments and regained control. The prototype had never been easy to keep steady, and it had been drifting under his fingers. Twice he’d had a lock on the command codes of the old Soviet missile that General La Porte had selected, still in its silo thousands of miles away, and twice he had lost the codes as the temperamental apparatus of optical cables and gel packs destabilized. He needed every ounce of concentration and dexterity to do the job, and the nerve-racking gunfire did not help.
Was it growing louder? Coming closer? Who could it be? Maybe it was that Colonel Smith with American and English soldiers.
Worried, he glanced up at his favorite print, which he had hung above his desk. There was the beaten Napoleon and the remnants of the pride of France, marching back from Moscow only to be beaten again, this time by the English jackals who were lying in wait. He had bought the print as a young man and kept it with him, a reminder of how great his country had once been. For him, everything had changed with his wife’s death. Everything but his devotion to France. Everything became the future of France.
He decided the gunfire might be coming from the Crescent Shield, here to rescue Mauritania. But maybe this time they would really steal the molecular computer and kidnap him as well.
He shrugged. It did not matter. They were all too late.
As he returned to his work, the door opened. Roland la Porte ducked his imposing body and entered. “Is the missile programmed?” he demanded. He straightened up, and his large size and personality seemed to fill the room. He was dressed casually in pleated trousers, a good Breton shirt, and a safari jacket. His black boots were polished to a high shine, and his dark, thick hair was smoothed back.
“Don’t rush me,” Chambord said, irritated. “That gunfire makes me nervous. Who is it?”
“Our old Islamic friends, the Crescent Shield. They’re of no consequence. Bonnard and the Legionnaires will beat them off, and then we’ll use the Islamics’ dead bodies to help guarantee that it’s they who’re blamed and hunted. It’s too bad you were interrupted before you could launch their strike against Israel. That would’ve provided additional cover for us.”
Chambord said nothing. Both knew there had not been time to move their whole operation from Algeria, regroup, and send the missile against Jerusalem. Not when the attack against the United States was the primary goal. Everything must be wrapped up now, so La Porte could spend Sunday making phone calls to solidify support for the EU council vote on Monday.
Chambord was having problems. This was when he could have used Zellerbach’s expertise. “The codes are more difficult to break into than the missile I reprogrammed for Mauritania,” he complained. “This missile is as old, but its codes are new—”
General La Porte interrupted, “Put that aside for the moment. I have another assignment for you.”
Chambord glanced at his watch. “We have only a half hour! I have to time the Russian satellite precisely to keep my window small. It’s no easy matter to open communications to the satellite so I can do its work.”
“Plenty of time for your miraculous machine, Doctor. I came to tell you that the Americans have a secret, experimental antimissile defense system. I didn’t expect them to deploy it, but I’ve just learned they’ve brought it online. It hasn’t been approved, but I know it’s had success in tests. We can’t risk the possibility it’ll work, or that our project will fail. You must shut down this new antimissile system, as you have all their other defenses.”
“How do you know so much?”
“We all spy on each other, even supposed allies,” La Porte said with a shrug. “There are no friends among nations, only interests.”
Up on the bare battlements, moonlight reflected off the walls of the castle proper and made the stone walkway along the top seem to flow with a river of blood. Through the mirage, Jon, Randi, and Peter scouted quickly. Marty went with Peter. There were two other sentries on top, and they were quickly dispatched, then the four rendezvoused.
Holding one of the FAMAS assault rifles he had picked up, Peter said simply, “Nothing.”
Jon and Randi reported the same. “It’s twenty-two minutes to midnight,” Randi added. “So little time.”
They sped to the long, dark curving stairwell that seemed to drop into dark infinity. Behind them, Marty hung back, a twin of Randi’s H&K MP5K in both hands as if he were clinging to it for dear life. His gaze darted nervously.
“The Legionnaires are busy at the entrance,” Jon told them. “That’s why there aren’t any more up here. We’ve got four stories and the towers to search. Let’s split up. We can each take a floor. If anyone needs help, use the walkie-talkies.”
“That’s dangerous, Jon. Dividing our force,” Randi objected.
“I know, but right now losing time is more dangerous. Mart?”
“I’ll go with Peter.”
Jon nodded. “Take the ground floor. I’ll do the second, and Randi the third. We’ll meet at the top. Let’s go.”
They ran down the spiral stone staircase, Peter and Marty leading. Randi peeled off, then Jon.
On the bottom floor, Peter slipped into the corridor first, Marty following. Dim electric lights were spaced widely apart and did little to dispel the dark. There were a few doors on both sides, all set into recesses in the thick walls. Marty opened each door carefully, while Peter waited, weapon up. They found no one. There was no furniture in the first rooms, an indication that at least part of the enormous historic castle was permanently unused.
“You have any idea how much it costs to heat one of these medieval monsters?” Peter whispered rhetorically.
Marty did not believe in rhetorical questions. “No, but if I had a computer, I’d calculate it in seconds.” He freed one hand from his heavy rifle and snapped his fingers.
Peter snorted, and they continued their search. Occasionally, the noise of rapid bursts of gunfire penetrated the castle, and it seemed to them that another assault had occurred outside. Then there would be a period of silence, followed by more sporadic shots. In here, it was difficult to tell where the battle was and impossible to know whether there was an outcome, or what it was.
At last, having seen no signs of Dr. Chambord, his DNA machine, General La Porte, or Captain Bonnard, and ducking into rooms to avoid the few sentries patrolling the corridors, they ran back up to the top floor, where Jon and Randi joined them.
The quartet was moving down the hall, checking doors, when two soldiers rounded a corner and almost collided with them. The Frenchmen grabbed their assault rifles off their shoulders in seconds. While Marty stumbled back, his menacing submachine gun ready in case the soldiers broke loose, Randi and Jon swarmed the first one to the floor, and Peter was all over the second with his Fairbairn-Sykes stiletto. There was a sharp gasp, a silenced and muffled pistol report, and neither renegade French soldier moved again.
Marty swallowed hard, gulping
air. He detested violence, but his round, gentle face was resolute as he guarded the corridor while the others dragged the corpses into an empty room. The door closed, and the foursome hurried on until Jon, who was in the lead now, stopped at a corner and raised a silencing hand.
He gestured to the others. They padded forward and stopped. Ahead a single sentry was posted outside the usual iron-reinforced wood door, lounging lazily against the stone wall, smoking a cigarette. His gaze was aimed away from them, focused on the door that it appeared he was guarding. Dressed in casual civilian clothes, he wore army boots and a dark green beret pulled down on the left side. His FAMAS assault rifle was slung over his shoulder. All of this indicated he was another French Legionnaire.
As the sentry smoked and yawned, Jon signaled the others again. They waited as he slid softly up behind the man and struck hard with the barrel of his Uzi. The guard dropped like a stone, unconscious. Peter and Jon dragged him into an empty room, gagged him, and tied him up with his own clothing and belt. But not before Randi thought to look and found an oversized iron key in his pocket. Jon appropriated the FAMAS assault rifle and extra ammunition, and they returned to the door that had been under guard.
Peter listened at it. “Someone’s moving around inside,” he whispered. He tried the door and shook his head. Locked. “They wouldn’t guard Chambord.”
“Unless it was for protection,” Randi said.
“What would they protect him against?” Marty wondered.
“The Crescent Shield attack down below,” Randi explained.
“Let’s find out.” Jon put the key into the lock. The lock had been freshly oiled and turned easily.
Randi pressed the door just wide enough and edged through. Peter slipped after her, while Jon and Marty stayed in the hall, guarding the rear.
Inside, the room was warmer than most, with a fire burning in a large fireplace. Furnished with an odd mixture of heavy medieval pieces and mundane modern, the small room appeared empty. Randi and Peter trained their weapons right and left, standing nearly back to back inside the doorway. Seeing no one, they advanced warily.
Thérèse Chambord arose like a white apparition from behind a long, massive chest of drawers, a heavy candlestick in her hand.
She said in surprised English, “Agent Russell?”
Randi demanded brusquely, “Where’s your father? The DNA computer?”
“In the armory. I can take you.” She put down the candlestick and hurried forward, tugging a blanket around her shoulders, still dressed stubbornly in her tattered white evening suit. Her bruised face was dirtier. “I heard gunfire. Was that you? Have you come to stop La Porte and my father?”
“Yes, but the gunfire isn’t us. The Crescent Shield’s outside.”
“Oh, dear.” Thérèse looked quickly around. “Jon? Is he—”
Jon stepped into the room. “What time’s the attack planned for?”
“Midnight. We don’t have much time.”
“Eight minutes,” Jon agreed grimly. “Tell us what you know.”
“From what I’ve overheard, and what my father hinted, they’re going to shoot a missile at the United States. I don’t know the exact target.”
“That’ll do for now. Here, take this.”
He handed her a FAMAS assault rifle, and they ran from the room.
Air Force One, Aloft over Iowa
Inside the conference room, President Castilla listened to the steady throb of the four powerful jet engines and checked the clock on the wall. Set to the Naval Observatory Master Clock, which was based on fifty-eight atomic clocks, it was phenomenally accurate—to within ten nanoseconds. As the president stared at it, the numbers changed to 0552. When were the killers going to strike? The long day had worn them down, grinding nerves raw.
“So far, so good,” he announced lightly to no one in particular, although the faces of his military and staff advisers were weary and anxious as they watched him.
“Yessir.” Admiral Stevens Brose managed a wan smile. He cleared his throat as if he were finding it difficult to swallow. “We’re prepared. STRATCOM is aloft, all our aircraft are on alert, and the new antimissile system’s in place and ready to attack the instant there’s a target. Everything’s been done.”
Samuel Castilla nodded. “Everything that can be done.”
Through the hush that descended like a shroud over the long table, the National Security Adviser, Emily Powell-Hill, who carried the name of one of the greatest and most tragic Confederate generals of the Civil War, answered, “That’s all anyone can do, Mr. President.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Château la Rouge, France
In the old armory with its ancestral swords, maces, and battle axes, General La Porte stood beside Émile Chambord, his large hands grasped behind his jacket, as he stared at the computer screen where rows of numbers scrolled. La Porte’s broad face was intense, his immobile gaze focused, although he understood nothing that Chambord was doing.
“Is the Americans’ antimissile system down yet?” he asked impatiently.
“Another minute.” Chambord touched more keys. “Yes…yes…there we are. Got it.” He leaned back, flushed and exultant. “One very annoying antimissile system shut off and locked up tight.”
La Porte’s face radiated pleasure. He nodded. Still, his mouth was set in a hard, grim line, and his voice was harsh and demanding: “Finish programming the missile, Doctor. I want it activated and ready to launch.”
Chambord glanced up at La Porte and resumed working, although he felt uneasy. He decided that the great general was not merely impatient, he was agitated. Chambord understood impatience and respected it. After all, it arose from eagerness. But agitation was another matter. Something about the general had changed, or perhaps it had been there all along, and now that they were so close to success, the general was revealing himself.
Jon and Randi raised their heads from the tower stairwell and studied the landing outside the armory. The air was less ventilated here, full of the dank odors of mold and old stone that seemed to permeate the castle. In the dim lighting, anyone watching would not see them unless their eyes were drawn by the faintest of movements among the shadows.
Jon checked his watch. Seven minutes until midnight. Too little time.
Impatiently he studied the door to the armory, which Thérèse Chambord had described. It was about twenty feet away. Two soldiers guarded there, but they were unlike the bored, careless sentry at Thérèse’s door. Alert and ready, they stood with their feet spread and their weapons—two more stubby FAMAS assault rifles—conveniently in their hands as they watched all around and glanced periodically back at the door. They would be a lot harder to surprise, and there could be more soldiers inside the armory.
Jon and Randi lowered themselves and ran down the steps. Outside the stairwell on the floor below, the others were gathered, waiting anxiously.
Jon described the layout for them. “The stairs continue circling up into the tower. The landing outside the armory is deep, about twenty feet. It’s lit by electric lights, but there aren’t enough of them. There are a lot of shadows.”
“Any way to flank them?” Peter asked.
Randi answered, “No way to get behind them.”
Her words were almost obliterated by a violent escalation of the distant gunfire. It sounded closer, loud and echoing, as if the Crescent Shield had finally broken through some important defense. Perhaps they had finally fought their way into the castle itself.
Jon continued, “From the way the two guards kept looking at the door to the armory upstairs, my guess is that the general is in there with Chambord.”
“I agree,” Randi said.
“Might be just Captain Bonnard,” Peter said. “Or both.”
“Someone has to be leading the resistance against the Crescent Shield,” Randi said. “Captain Bonnard’s the logical one to do that.”
“Right,” Peter said. “My big worry is those two guards could retreat in
side and hold it all night. After all, it’s an armory. Armories always had the best defense in a castle. Let’s reconnoiter. We’ve got to find some way to get into that room without alarming them.”
“It’s six minutes to midnight,” Randi said worriedly.
“Oh, dear!” Marty whispered.
With nods all around, they dashed along the corridor toward the moonlight of the far window and a cross corridor. There was movement ahead where the corridors met. Jon saw it just in time to save them from being discovered.
His whisper was a bark, “Down!”
Ahead, figures began to move through the intersection, two and three at a time. Moonlight illuminated their faces as they crossed. One shone like ebony.
“Abu Auda,” Randi said in a low voice. “It’s a small group. They’re being quiet, but I can hear doors opening and closing. They’re looking for someone or something.”
“Mauritania,” Jon decided.
“Yes, Mauritania,” Randi agreed. “They’re a cutting-out party to free Mauritania.”
“But first they’ve got to find him,” Peter said. “That’s why they’re checking rooms.”
Jon paused. “This can work to our advantage. If there were a firefight, it’d bring La Porte and maybe all his other men who aren’t already battling the Crescent Shield.”
“Once they’re gone, getting into the armory will be a cinch,” Randi said.
Peter nodded. “Let’s give the buggers a firefight.”
With Marty following gamely, they ran on toward the intersection. Jon peered around the corner. Far down the hall, just before it turned, Abu Auda worked with what looked like picklocks to open a door, while his men guarded the corridor.
The Paris Option Page 43