Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 91 hours, 50 minutes
The Vice President of the United States sat behind his desk, but he felt like he was under a spotlight in the back of a police squad room. Three people stood in front of his desk. Two men and a woman. They’d declined seats or coffee. None of them were smiling. Bill Collins looked from face to face and knew that he had no friends in the room.
The Speaker of the House, Alan Henderson, ran the show. As second in the line of succession, it was his job, if it was anyone’s. He wore an expensive suit with a faint pin stripe and a bow tie that was forty years out of style. Even during the gravest of national emergencies, the Speaker usually wore a smile of mild amusement that was emblematic of his well-known “this, too, shall pass” point of view. Now his face was as lugubrious as a mortician.
“Well, Bill, I’d say you screwed the pooch on this one. Screwed the pooch and then ran the damn thing over with a steamroller. I just came from seeing the President. You gosh-darn near gave him the heart attack his doctors were trying to sidestep with the bypass.”
The Secretary of State cleared her throat. “I find it alarming that you didn’t consult with me before launching this operation.”
“Are you finished?” Collins asked coldly. “First things first, Alan, when I issued those orders I was the Acting President of the United States, so let’s be quite clear about chain of command here. Whereas I appreciate your loyalty and service to the country, I don’t appreciate your taking that tone of voice with me.”
That shut them all up.
“Second, before I acted I consulted with the Attorney General. Nathan . . . ?”
Nathan Smitrovich, the Attorney General, nodded, though he clearly looked uncertain as to how this was going to play out. “That’s right, Alan. He called me and we talked it over. I . . . um, advised him to bring a few other people into the loop, but he said that there was an issue of trust.”
“Trust?” Alan Henderson suddenly looked anything but mild and homespun. “What the hell . . . who the hell do you think you—”
“Calm down, Alan,” said Collins. “No one is leveling any accusations. At least not at you. Or at anyone in this room. But you have to understand my position. I received confidential information from a source who is positioned well enough to have insider knowledge. The information not only outlined an ongoing campaign of blackmail against the President but included hints that many other members of Congress might be under similar control. I couldn’t risk making this an open issue. If anyone else was involved, then the blackmail material Mr. Church has might have been made public, and that could have brought down this administration. At the very least it would have crippled it.” He sat back and looked at them, his face calm and open. “You tell me how you would have acted? Tell me how you would have done things differently?”
The Secretary of State, Anne Hartcourt, folded her arms and cocked her head. She didn’t look convinced. “I could buy the confidential informant bit, Bill, and if I stretch my credulity I could accept your rationalization for not including any of us. But are you going to sit there and tell me that this entire operation was cooked up, planned, and set into motion only after the President went under sedation?”
Collins laughed. “Of course not. This information was brought to me a few days ago. After it was announced that the President was to undergo surgery. My informant said that it was the only opportunity he felt would allow for me to make a swift and decisive countermove.”
“Who is this informant?” asked Henderson.
Collins flicked a glance at the AG. “I told Nathan that I wanted to withhold the name of the informant pending the resolution of the situation. And the situation has not been resolved. Yes, the President is back in power, but this does not remove the threat.”
“If the threat is even real.”
“I believe it to be real.”
“Why?” asked Anne Hartcourt. “Why are you so convinced?”
Collins hesitated. “Because . . . the informant had information that could have come from only two sources: the President himself or someone who had somehow gathered very private information about the President.”
“What was that information?” asked the Attorney General. “You wouldn’t tell me earlier, but I damn well want to know now.”
“Not a chance, Nathan. I’m leaving for Walter Reed in five minutes. I’ll discuss this directly with the President. If he chooses to allow anyone else to participate in that conversation then it’ll have to be his choice. I will not break the confidence of the President. Not to you and not under any circumstances, even if you drag me before a subcomittee.”
When the others said nothing, he added, “I argued against forming the DMS from the beginning. I warned that it could become a threat, something we would never be able to control.”
Alan Henderson sighed. “I agreed with you about that, too, Bill, but we were overruled. And I do not believe that Mr. Church blackmailed everyone who voted against us. There are some who think that the DMS is doing a valuable, even crucial job. Right now the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of Homeland both want your head on a platter, and they don’t even like Church. But they understand the value of the DMS. Maybe your short-term memory is slipping, Bill, but DMS agents saved your wife’s life two months ago. They saved my life, too. And Anne here, and the First Lady. They’ve prevented terrorists from bringing nukes and weaponized pathogens into this country. They’ve stopped six separate assassination attempts on the President’s life. They prevented the kidnapping of the President’s daughters. And they closed down forty-three separate terrorist cells that were operating inside the United States.”
“I didn’t say they didn’t do some good,” Collins said. “I said that they were going beyond their orders and now pose a threat to this administration.”
“If your informant is correct,” said Hartcourt.
“Yes. And once I speak with the President I will cooperate in every way possible to verify this information.”
“Maybe it’s just me,” muttered Henderson, “but this has a bit of the stink of WMDs on it.”
Collins ignored that. “MindReader may be a useful tool in the War on Terror, but it’s also highly dangerous. That computer system can intrude anywhere, learn everything. Even Church isn’t authorized to know everything. You don’t think I looked into this? Asked around? People have been quietly complaining about Church for years, hinting that he’s used his computer to find things out about people and then used that information as a lever to always get his way. They’re blackmailing the President; they’re forcing him to give the DMS more and more power!”
Alan Henderson looked at the others for a moment. The Secretary of State folded her arms and said nothing; the Attorney General shrugged.
“Okay, Bill,” Henderson said, “but you’d better be right about this or this is going to come back and bite you on the ass.”
“If I thought I was wrong, Alan, I would never have done this.”
He looked at his watch.
“I have to get going. My car will be downstairs in two minutes.”
ONCE VICE PRESIDENT Collins was in his car and had the soundproof window between him and the driver shut, he took out his cell and called J. P. Sunderland.
“How’d it go?” asked Sunderland.
“I feel like I’ve been worked over by prizefighters.”
“Did they buy it?”
“So far, but they’re not exactly on our team. Since we didn’t actually come up with MindReader and can’t prove that Church has anything on the President, we’re going to have to switch to Plan B and do it mighty damn fast. I’m on my way to Walter Reed now to meet with the President. He’s going to want to tear me a new one, so it would be useful if his people got a call about our scapegoat. I don’t want this coming through me, you understand?”
“Sure. Don’t worry, Bill . . . I’ve got it all in hand.”
They disconnected and the Vice President
sank back against the cushions and watched the gray buildings of Washington roll past. He looked calm and collected, but inside he was screaming.
Chapter Forty-Five
Deep Iron Storage Facility
Saturday, August 28, 4:22 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 91 hours, 38 minutes
The satellite phone buzzed and Gunnery Sgt. Brick Anderson reached for it without taking his eyes off of the front door of the main building at Deep Iron. He identified himself and received today’s command code. When he verified it a voice said, “Hold for Mr. Church.”
A moment later Church said, “Give me a sit rep, Gunny.”
“Nothing new at this end. Captain Ledger and his team have been in the hole for seventy-one minutes and I’ve been sweating bullets for seventy of those minutes.”
“Any activity?”
“Nothing from them, and nothing from anyone else.”
Church was silent for a moment. “Very well. Listen to me, Gunny; the situation has changed. The President is awake and back in charge, though he’s still in the hospital. The Vice President has been ordered to tell the NSA to stand down.”
“Well, halle-freaking-lujah. And about goddamn time, too, sir. Company would be appreciated.”
“Agreed. I’ve notified the Hub and backup is rolling. You’ll have technical support in thirty minutes from your own office, and I’ve just gotten word that the Colorado State Police SWAT units are airborne and inbound to your twenty. ETA thirty-five minutes.”
“Orders, sir?”
“Sit tight until the backup arrives. SWAT has been informed that this is a National Security matter and that you are in charge until Captain Peterson or Ledger is located. If neither has turned up by the time SWAT arrives I want you to enter Deep Iron, assess the situation, and if there is no immediate threat I want you to locate our people.” Church paused. “I know you’re no longer on active mission status, Gunny, but I need one of my people down there to lead the search. Are you up to this?”
“Sir, I lost my leg,” Brick said, “not my trigger finger.”
“Good man. Keep me updated.”
Church disconnected the call.
Brick set the sat phone down, looked at his watch, and then leaned back into position, staring down the length of the minigun at the front door. He was relieved that the NSA problem was over, at least for now, but the bad feeling he’d had all day was still there. Stronger than ever.
ON THE FAR side of the building two misshapen figures crawled out of an air vent and moved away, keeping low. One limped heavily from a bullet wound in his left thigh; the other staggered along behind him, hands clamped to the ruin of his mouth. They both trailed dark blood as they went. They paused at the edge of the roof and surveyed the foothills on the far side of the facility. No one and nothing moved except withered grass in the late August breeze.
One of the figures opened a Velcro pouch on his hip and withdrew two syrettes. He handed one to his companion and they both injected a cocktail of morphine and adrenaline into their arms. Almost immediately the pain diminished to manageable levels.
The one with the injured leg pulled a sat phone from a belt holster, turned it on, checked his watch, and then punched in that hour’s frequency. The call was answered by a woman with a sensual feline voice.
“Mission accomplished.” The injured soldier’s voice was a complete contrast to the woman’s. It was deep and guttural, his words badly formed, as if his mouth and tongue were ill suited to the task.
“Status?” asked the woman.
“We’re both injured but able to move. Request extraction at the drop point.”
“How soon?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Very well.” The woman disconnected.
The man returned the sat phone to his holster, pocketed the used syrettes, and exchanged a nod with his companion. They clambered over the wall, moving as quickly as their injuries would allow, ran across the back parking lot, scaled the chain-link fence, and headed into the foothills, making maximum use of natural cover. Within minutes they were gone.
Chapter Forty-Six
Deep Iron Storage Facility
Saturday, August 28, 5:21 P.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 90 hours, 39 minutes
The lights came on and a few moments later we heard the heavy hydraulics of the elevators. A couple of minutes later we heard voices. Muffled and distant. We checked our weapons and took up firing positions behind the stacked file boxes.
Then I heard Gunnery Sgt. Brick Anderson’s bull voice bellowing, “Bluebird!”
The cavalry had arrived.
“About damn time, too,” said Bunny.
He and Top began moving boxes away from the door. They opened it carefully and Top cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into the echoing cavern.
“Canary!”
We heard shouting, the whirring of machines, and the sounds of men running. Brick called the challenge again and Top verified it and then opened the door as Brick rolled to a stop in a golf cart with a BAR laid across the windowless dashboard. He was surrounded by a dozen men in full SWAT rig, weapons at port arms, eyes looking at us and then past us at the dead Russians on the floor by the wall. The box covers did little to hide the raw reality of what lay beneath.
“You boys been busy,” Brick said with a grim smile.
But I shook my head. “That’s not our work, Gunny.”
“Captain Peterson?” Gunny asked, his smile beginning to dim.
I shook my head. “We’ve seen no sign of Jigsaw.”
I told Brick and the SWAT team leader an abbreviated version of what had happened, omitting what we’d found in the boxes. Brick looked stricken. The SWAT commander relayed to his men that there was at least two heavily armed hostiles in the facility. I was okay with a “shoot on sight” approach, but that was my nerves talking. My common sense told me to get prisoners we could interrogate. Answers would be nice.
The team dispersed for an active search, but I didn’t think they were going to find much.
I pulled some of the file boxes and loaded them onto Brick’s golf cart.
“Post a couple of men on this door,” I said, indicating the Haeckel bin. “Nobody gets in there, nothing gets touched, unless I give the word.”
Brick searched my face, but I wasn’t showing anything. Or I thought I wasn’t, because he saw something in my expression that darkened his. He nodded and relayed the orders to the SWAT team.
A few minutes later a technical support team from the DMS’s Denver office showed up and with them were another dozen armed soldiers from the Hub. More help was inbound from the State Police, including a full bird colonel from the National Guard and two hundred men. It sounded like a lot, but the limestone caverns were vast. The Hub communications officer told me that Jerry Spencer was airborne and heading our way, so I amended my orders to that effect. Let Jerry play with the mess.
I processed all of this, but my mind was elsewhere. That letter wouldn’t let me go. In any other circumstance it would be an historical oddity, the kind of thing a scholar could build a book around. And maybe that was all it was, but I didn’t think so. There were already way too many coincidences today, and I wasn’t buying any of them. When someone sends two armed teams to retrieve something at all costs, then that material is more than grist for a History Channel special.
Given that, the implications were staggering, and as I stood to one side and watched Brick, the Hub team, and SWAT do their jobs, I tried to make everything fit into some kind of shape. My inner cop took over and began sorting through the separate elements of the day.
Russian hit teams here and in Wilmington. The Wilmington hit had been on a guy selling pilfered medical research. Exactly what was that research? I wondered. Church knew and I would find out. A second Russian team here in Denver looking for old records that turn out to be—big surprise—more medical research . . . but medical research conducted by Nazi doct
ors in Auschwitz? Boxes and boxes of them. Statistics and results. Zwangs/Trauma. That had been written on one page. It was German for “forced trauma.” The notations indicated that the results were categorized according to speed, angle, and PSI classified by chains, clubs, horsewhips, fists, bare feet, and booted feet. Extensive, thorough, and exhaustive documentation of the effects of deliberate physical abuse. Even as cynical as I’ve become, it was hard for me to grasp the scope and degree of personal corruption required to undertake such a program. That it went on for years was unspeakable.
So, if these records were real, then how the hell did Heinrich Haeckel smuggle them out of Germany after the war? This stuff should not exist, and certainly not in private storage here in the states. Yet here it was, and men were willing to kill one another to recover it, just as men were willing to torture and kill Burt Gilpin in Wilmington and shoot down my own men.
Why?
When Top and Bunny described the Wilmington incident to me they mentioned that the Russians had been downloading information from Gilpin’s hard drive. Could Gilpin, during his adventures in hacking, have somehow stumbled upon some reference to Haeckel and traced that to estate records that led the Russians to Deep Iron? Very likely. The timing certainly fit, at least as far as the Russians went.
Church had said that a Cold War–era group called the Cabal had been interested in this sort of thing, but he was convinced that the Cabal had been torn down. Was he wrong? Or had someone else picked up where the Cabal had left off? Someone who hired either the Russians or the two big bruisers to find something that was stored among these records. That seemed likely, though it still didn’t answer the question of who sent the other team.
My reverie was interrupted by Top Sims, who handed me a sat phone. “The geeks from the Hub ran a series of relays down the stairwell. Mr. Church is on the line.”
I nodded and clicked on the phone.
“You heard about the NSA?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring me up to speed.”
I did and there was a long silence at the other end. I could hear the relays clicking as Church processed it.
The Dragon Factory Page 21
