Deep Silence

by Jonathan Maberry

  “I did.”

  “It makes that sound anytime two previously connected pieces are detached. But what I really want you to see is what happens when I put them back.”

  Rig seemed to brace himself, and then placed the disk where it had been. There was no hrooom sound, but instead the whole unit flashed with intense light. It was there and gone, fast as a wink.

  “How cool is that?” declared Rig.

  “Give me the plate, kid.” When Rig handed it to him, Valen attached it to the machine. Although his hearing was bad, his sense of touch was superb, and as he moved the plate into place he felt something. A pull, like a magnetic attraction. Very faint, but definitely there. There was also another flash of bright green light.

  Without saying anything he picked up the rod again and tried once more to insert it into the hole, this time paying attention to the feel of the resistance. While the plate felt like it was being pulled into place, the rod felt like it was being pushed back. It was a subtle feeling, but he was sure it was there.

  “What…?” asked Rig.

  “Magnetism,” said Valen.

  “Huh? There’s no metal.”

  He handed the rod to the grad student and told him what to feel for. It took a moment, but then Rig’s eyes popped wide.

  “Holy crap,” he said.

  “Yes,” agreed Valen. “And now I think we have a way of figuring out how to assemble this thing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  NEW DAY

  CNN MORNING NEWS

  Alisyn Camerota, the sharp-eyed blond co-anchor of New Day, was grilling an expert about the two Washington, D.C., quakes.

  Geologist John Geissman, professor and department head of geosciences at the University of Texas at Dallas and editor in chief of Tectonics, was doing a workmanlike job of keeping his response down on the practical level. Mundanity for him to balance the needs of the seasoned journalist for something approaching apocalyptic hysteria.

  “What is presently the Eastern Seaboard of North America,” he said casually, “has experienced a geologically long and very complicated history. You see, earthquakes form when rocks are displaced against one another along what we call faults. These are planes of zero cohesion in the Earth’s crust. So, there are ‘cracks’ along which displacement takes place. Once a fault forms, then there is a possibility, often a very good one, that subsequent displacement will take place over and over and over.”

  “Resulting in larger and larger earthquakes?” said Camerota, trying to lead him.

  He stroked his thick, graying mustache. “Resulting in the possibility of additional shocks,” he corrected.

  “What can we do to predict these kinds of devastating events?”

  Geissman suppressed a smile. “As advanced as geosciences have become, Alisyn, we still can’t predict earthquakes. However, we have gotten much better at assessing the probability and likely level of ground shaking at any point from future earthquakes.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No, because it’s based on statistical models. Looking at data from certain areas over a long period of time, we can build statistical models to say that an earthquake might happen there within a range of years.”

  Camerota looked crestfallen. “Years…?”

  “Years. We can’t yet pin it down to specifics. Even the weathermen can’t do that, and they have more indicators to work with. Maybe one day, but as of right now, we just can’t determine when a specific fault may rupture, as the interaction between earthquake faults worldwide is so complex.…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  OFFICE OF THE ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  When United States Attorney General Norris Spellman heard that Aunt Sallie was in his outer office, he considered calling security. He also considered leaving by a side door. He even gave his window a long, appraising look. Worst-case scenario was that he’d break a leg on the jump down to the ground. That was better than the alternative.

  “Send her in,” he said to his secretary, and hated the quaver he heard in his own voice.

  The door did not bang open, nor did it creak like something in a haunted house. Aunt Sallie was too dangerous to be that dramatic. He didn’t know her very well, but he knew enough to be genuinely afraid of her. Not physically—although he was sure that as old and sick as she was, Auntie could beat him to a pulp—but because she represented something that he had no skills to confront. Power. She exuded it. It hung on her like armor and she wielded it like a sword. The very fact of her being here in his office felt like a statement about his own lack of power. He had never worn a uniform—not as a police officer or in the military. Not even a Cub Scout uniform. He had been a lawyer his whole life, mostly working as a prosecutor going after low-to-midlevel drug dealers because they were easy wins and it gave him good stats, at least on paper. That was a wave he rode for years, with pauses to back candidates whose political agendas suited his own. Law-and-order candidates, who knew how that played among lower-income blue-collar workers. The ones who thought their elected officials gave an actual damn about them. Whom Spellman and his friends called “rubes” when they laughed about it on the back nine.

  “Sallie,” said Spellman, pasting on a smile that showed his white-on-white caps to their best effect. “How lovely to see you.”

  He came around his desk and offered his hand and then waved her to a red leather guest chair. Aunt Sallie was dressed in a severe blue pantsuit and sensible shoes, along with her usual chunky jewelry. She walked with a cane that Spellman had heard rumors about. Some people said it had a sword inside; others said a gun. He didn’t know or care either way, because it had a silver handle that could qualify as a lethal weapon in any jurisdiction.

  “Lovely to see me,” echoed Sallie as she lowered her bulk into the chair. “We both know that’s not true, Norris.”

  “Oh, come on, Auntie,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Like it was nothing. “We know this is all politics.”

  Her smile stopped him. It was one of the less human things he’d ever seen on a person’s face. “Norris, I’m too old and too sick at heart to play politics or any other kind of game. I’ve been at this since before your mama stuck her tit in your mouth, so don’t lecture me on what this is.”

  “I—”

  “Shhh, listen now. There’s no one else here. Not the Deacon and not your boss. No one. Just us. You can even pat me down to make sure I’m not wearing a wire. Go on, I won’t file any sexual harassment suits if you want to feel me up.”

  He flushed a deep red but did not dare comment.

  “I want a straight answer about what happened with Ledger,” continued Auntie. “No bullshit, no company line. If this is your boss just waving his dick around, tell me now. I need to know the truth in case he tries another stunt, because maybe next time someone will get killed. I don’t want that to happen, not even to one of the short-bus types your side’s been hiring. They’re dumb as bags of hair, but they’re probably not villains. So, if you have any influence at all over your boss, then tell him to check his ammo and pick his targets before going to war with us.”

  “Is that,” Spellman began, but choked on it. He cleared his throat and tried it again. “Is that a threat?”

  Aunt Sallie uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “Of course, Norris. It’s a very serious threat, and if I were you, I’d take heed.”

  “I’m the attorney general of the—”

  “Seriously, Norris … so fucking what? You know what I am? I’m an actual American patriot. In the service of this country I’ve killed more people than you’ve ever met. I’ve walked ankle-deep through blood on seven continents. So has Ledger. And so have a lot of the brave men and women who serve this country as operatives of the Department of Military Sciences. You want to measure dicks? Fine. You want to stack your service to this country against ours? You want to sit there and tell me that what you’re doing is more righteous,
more surely in the best interests of the American people, go on. Let’s put all our cards on the table, faceup.”

  Spellman met her eyes for exactly as long as he could bear it. Maybe three seconds. Then he picked up some papers and tapped them into a neat stack and placed them on a corner of his blotter.

  “You don’t scare me,” he said without looking at her.

  Aunt Sallie stood up. “Norris, you are either truly stupid or you are insanely stupid. Everything I said here is true; you know it. That should scare you. That should terrify you.”

  “Good-bye, Aunt Sallie,” he said. “Have a safe trip back to Brooklyn.”

  He turned his chair around and looked out the window, listening for the sounds of her leaving. There were none. Instead, something touched his shoulder and he flinched away from it, then looked along the length of her cane. The silver head had brushed his collarbone very lightly.

  “You made your call, Norris,” said Aunt Sallie. She withdrew the cane and leaned on it. “You made your bed.”

  She turned and limped out of his office.

  Once she was gone, Spellman called down to the front security desk to make sure Auntie was out of the building. Then he used his cell phone to call Jennifer VanOwen.

  INTERLUDE TWELVE

  PARK HYATT SYDNEY

  SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  SIX YEARS AGO

  Gadyuka stood looking down into the open cooler that had been delivered to her suite. The note from Valen was cryptic, with only sparse details about where it was found. He texted her to say that he and Ari were hurrying back to the site because other artifacts had been uncovered, but with no additional explanation.

  Gadyuka backed away with a hand to her mouth as if stifling a shriek. She stared at the green, scaly hand and the crystal gun.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped. “They’re back.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  U.S. SECRET SERVICE HEADQUARTERS

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Aunt Sallie saw the six agents standing in a defensive line before the security post in the entrance of the Secret Service headquarters. The agents were all large, impeccably dressed, unsmiling. A seventh agent pushed past them, an ID wallet with a blue-and-gold special agent’s badge held out so she could see it.

  “Please stop right there, ma’am,” said the lead agent. “I am Special Agent Connor O’Hare.”

  She walked right up to him and stopped, inches away. “What’s the play here, Agent?”

  “Please turn around, exit the building, and return to your vehicle,” said O’Hare in a nearly monotone voice. “If you need assistance, I will be happy to assign two agents to help you. If you prefer female agents, that can be arranged.”

  “So, this is a roust?”

  He studied her for a moment, then took her by the elbow and exerted gentle pressure. Not toward the exit, but to one side, away from the others. She allowed it, interested to see what he wanted. O’Hare spoke very quietly. “Listen, ma’am, I used to work for Linden Brierley. I was on the presidential detail during the incident at the residence when POTUS went missing. I worked on his team during the whole Black Book project.”

  “And…?”

  “And I’m just about the last man standing from those days. Ask Brierley, he’ll vouch for me. You need to back down. We got word that you harassed the AG. He is going to file charges.”

  Auntie snorted.

  “Not saying they’ll stick,” said O’Hare, “but, like it or not, he is the attorney general. He has POTUS’s ear. Word went out, and you’re not going to get in to see anyone today. No one. Whatever you hoped to do here in D.C. is a wash. Best thing you can do is go back to your office and lawyer up. I wish I had something better to say. I wish it wasn’t me saying this to you, but at least you’re not in cuffs. If you push this, you will be.”

  Auntie could feel her pulse hammering, and heat was rising from her chest and up her neck. She didn’t even want to think what her blood pressure was right now.

  “This is horseshit, O’Hare.”

  “Yes it is, ma’am, and I wish it were otherwise. Please … you can’t win this fight. Not here, and not today.” His professional demeanor had cracked to reveal a fully human face. She could see the concern and pain in his eyes. It made her suddenly feel very old. And more than a little scared. “Please,” he begged.

  Aunt Sallie sighed and nodded. “Okay, O’Hare.”

  He looked incredibly relieved. “Thank you.”

  She lingered a moment longer, though. “Why do you stay in the middle of all this shit?”

  O’Hare almost smiled. “Probably for the same reason you do, Aunt Sallie. Someone has to.”

  She studied him. “The war is the war,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “The war is the war.”

  Aunt Sallie turned, feeling her years more than she had in a long time. Feeling the frustration and anger boiling inside of her. Feeling the humiliation as the six younger agents watched her go. Feeling the defeat.

  O’Hare walked her to the door, and she let him help her down the steps and into the back of her car. D.J. Ming gave him very hard looks and started to say something, but Auntie shook her head. O’Hare leaned on the frame of the car. “Are you going to be okay, Auntie? You don’t look…”

  He trailed off because she shook her head. Then he stepped back and closed the door. When Auntie turned to look through the rear window of the DMS limo, he was standing on the curb watching, like a lone soldier lost in enemy country.

  “You okay?” asked D.J.

  “Don’t start,” she warned.

  “Oooo-kay. Then where to, Auntie. Back to the hotel? Or the airport?”

  “No,” she said wearily. Her brown fists were clenched like a stranger’s hands around the shaft of her cane. “The Capitol Building.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE WAREHOUSE

  DMS FIELD OFFICE

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  Sam Imura shook my hand without much warmth, gave me one of his uninformative kind of smiles, and told me to have a safe flight home. Which I took to mean, Go away and don’t hurry back.

  He gave Top and Bunny more comradely handshakes, complete with chest bumps and lots of back slapping. He patted Ghost’s head, who seemed indifferent to whatever emotional dynamic was going on at the moment because no one was handing out Snausages. Our driver, one of Sam’s people, pulled the car up, and Bunny loaded our bags. I literally had one foot in the car when my cell phone rang. The screen display told me it was D.J. Ming, Aunt Sallie’s driver and bodyguard.

  “Hey, D.J.,” I said as I continued to slide into the front passenger seat.

  “Joe, hey,” said D.J., “are you still in Baltimore?”

  “About to head to the airport now. Why?”

  “Any chance I can talk you into coming down to D.C.?”

  I snorted. “Pretty sure everyone with a badge there wants to arrest me.”

  “I know, but this is important.”

  “Yeah, well, so is not going to Gitmo.”

  “I’m serious, Joe,” said D.J. “It’s about Aunt Sallie.”

  The driver was about to turn the key, but I touched his wrist and shook my head. “Has something happened to her?”

  “Not … exactly. And, man, she will absolutely kill me when she finds out I called you.” He explained about Aunt Sallie’s trip to D.C. to try and get to the truth about the pickup order on me. D.J. hadn’t been in each of Auntie’s meetings, but she’d told him the bones of it, including how she was ushered out of the Secret Service headquarters with an armed escort. “Frankly, Joe, I’m getting worried about her. She’s been going way off her diet. Stress eating, I guess, though you couldn’t force me to say that to her face if you put a gun to my head. Her BP’s off the scale, she’s always flushed and sweating, and I’m afraid she’s going to have a heart attack or something.”

  “Okay, D.J.,” I said, opening the car door, “text me her itinerary and I’ll catch up. Can’t pr
omise she’ll listen to me, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I just dropped her at the Capitol Building. She thinks I’m just parking the car. She’s here to ambush some congressmen.”

  “Be there in an hour.”

  I got out and told the others about the call. Top never complains and he didn’t wait for me to ask him if he was in. Instead he popped the trunk and grabbed his suitcase.

  “Sam,” I said, “you got some wheels for us?”

  “Yeah,” said Bunny, “something that a bunch of cranky Secret Service mooks can’t shoot through.”

  Sam sighed. “Sure. Take a Betty Boop.”

  We turned to look where he was pointing. A line of black SUVs stood in a row. Two Escalades, two Land Rover Sport Diesels, and a Nissan Armada. They were the latest in a long series of gradually mutating urban transport. The first generation, known as Black Betty, was designed by the head of the Vehicles and Transportation Design Center, otherwise known as the Shop. Our chief mechanic, Mike Harnick, is—how should I put this nicely?—out of his damn mind. He watches all those scenes in James Bond movies where 007 gets tutored on the bizarre extras Q has built into his cars, and Mike thinks they’re real. Point is, Mike tends to go a little beyond beyond when he builds a car for one of the field teams. My own car back home in San Diego has an ejector seat, which is something I once joked about wanting. Mike took me seriously. Very seriously. The demonstration of that ejector seat put four fifty-pound sacks of sand forty feet into the air. The ceiling in his garage is forty feet. You see where I’m going with that.

  Anyway, roll forward until Mike meets the new head of the DMS Integrated Sciences Division, Dr. Joan Holliday, aka Doc Holliday. Doc is a Jedi Master of geeky weirdo gadgets. The two of them spent a week at the Shop and I swear dark clouds gathered overtop and there were peals of demonic laughter. Or so I’ve been told. The result is that the Black Betty model is yesterday’s leftovers. The new line—improbably known as Betty Boops because … well, I really don’t know why—look exactly like top-of-the-line SUVs. However, the only part of them that came out of the catalogs of Ford, Nissan, or other car companies is the silhouettes. The skin of each car is a polycarbon blend that infuses spider silk, Kevlar, and some kind of new polymer that will stop anything short of an RPG. And an RPG will dent but not penetrate. From gel-filled self-repairing tires to window glass that can shrug off fifty-caliber rounds, they are rolling tanks. The polymers and alloys keep the weight down so the supercharged engines aren’t slowed at all.