Day of the Delphi

by Jon Land

  “It’s not finished yet, sir. It’s not over,” Blaine told the President as they strolled through the Rose Garden.

  “You’re talking about Dodd, of course.”

  “What happens when he comes down off his space station, Mr. President?”

  “What would you like to see happen, Mr. McCracken?”

  “I’d like to be standing there to personally slap the handcuffs on him and place him under arrest for treason.”

  “Which, I’m told, still carries the death penalty with it.”

  “Under the right circumstances it does, sir.”

  The President stopped. “And could the country handle the trial, Blaine?”

  “I’m not sure the country could handle not having the trial.”

  “In this case I don’t agree with you, Blaine. In fact I question which McCracken I’m speaking to. The one who spent the last dozen years on the outside, or the one who spent the last week on the in? The former would be advocating Dodd’s arrest, incarceration, and the biggest trial this nation has ever seen. The latter would realize allowing everything he tried to do to come out might tear this country apart.”

  “You’re making the same mistake Dodd did, sir: you’re not giving the country enough credit.”

  “Maybe. But a trial would give Dodd a forum for his ideas, and if his lawyers found a way to get him off, he could conceivably emerge from this in an even stronger position. Right or wrong?”

  “Right,” Blaine conceded.

  “And we could be facing all this again some other time, if not from Dodd, then from someone else. Right or wrong?”

  McCracken’s eyes gave his answer.

  The President looked at him thoughtfully. “After all this is over and done with, I want to keep you on the inside, and the only way you can stay here is to think in those terms. There’s got to be some other means to deal with Samuel Jackson Dodd.”

  The space shuttle Atlantis squeezed against the docking bay of the space station Olympus. Its occupants felt a hefty thump as the seal took hold.

  “Docking achieved,” the pilot announced.

  “Enter when ready,” the station commander greeted.

  Sam Jack Dodd had followed the shuttle’s approach carefully, wondering what or who might be waiting on board for him.

  “Mr. Dodd?” a voice called from within Atlantis over Dodd’s private channel.

  “I believe that must be the voice of Blaine McCracken,” he responded. “I’m gratified you made the trip personally.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m speaking to you from earth. I’ve had my fill of traveling on space shuttles.”

  “Of course, that nasty Omega business.”

  “I see my reputation precedes me.”

  “You’ll be meeting me on the ground, I suspect.”

  “Nope.”

  “Your surrogates, then.”

  “No again. Your limousine will be there, as expected.”

  Dodd smirked. “In that case, I assume that you’re calling to make some sort of deal on behalf of—”

  “Wrong for the third time. You must be having a bad day, Mr. Dodd.”

  “Whose side exactly are you on, Mr. McCracken?”

  “The side of anyone who is willing to stand up against men like you.”

  “Like me? I should point out that might well include yourself. After all, what more do the two of us want than what’s best for the country?”

  “I guess I want plenty more. Like making sure we maintain self-determination. The country’s got to chart its own course, Mr. Dodd. It’s not up to individual men or groups to force the future down anyone’s throat. I saw the results of that Saturday night, and I’ve seen them before. Lots of people died down here for no reason at all. Lots more were injured. And just about everyone else is scared.”

  “That’s the point! You’re missing it!”

  “And you missed it a long time ago. A country’s not a business, not a simple commodity. It’s a living, breathing entity. We grow, we change. If the day of the Delphi had worked, there would be no growth, no change. There would be only a prescription based on your diagnosis to be filled and swallowed. Sorry, Mr. Dodd. The country might be sick right now, but it doesn’t need the kind of medicine you advocate.”

  Dodd wandered to the small viewing portal before responding over the speaker. “For a simple killer, you know how to turn a phrase. I look forward to meeting you on the ground.”

  “Like I said, I won’t be there.”

  “You’re letting me off?”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  “But the country must be spared embarrassment, mustn’t it?” Dodd smiled to himself. Hope rose anew. “Of course I should have known.” Once again, the government’s weakness had worked to his favor. “Don’t expect me to promise I won’t try it again,” he added defiantly. “Don’t expect me to promise anything.”

  “I don’t.”

  “We’ll meet someday, Mr. McCracken.”

  “No, Mr. Dodd, I don’t think we will.”

  McCracken was visiting Kristen Kurcell in the hospital when the space shuttle Atlantis touched down with Samuel Jackson Dodd on board, met only by his standard private security detail. Baffled but no less wary, Dodd climbed into his limousine and was driven off. He knew McCracken would be coming for him before too long and intended to be ready.

  The bullet she had taken inside Arlo Cleese’s van had done a lot of damage to Kristen’s leg. Surgery had been performed early Sunday morning and she’d finished her first therapy session an hour before Blaine’s arrival on Wednesday afternoon. The pain had been excruciating, the simplest motion suddenly difficult.

  “I always wanted a personal trainer,” she said to Blaine. The furrows pain had dug in her face during therapy were still evident. “You wouldn’t be available, would you?”

  He sat down close to her on the bed and took her hand. “For the right price.”

  “I mean, I’ve got to figure you’re an expert. Saturday night was just routine to you.”

  “It’s never routine. Some are just worse than others.”

  “This one?”

  “Definitely in the top three.” Blaine slid closer to Kristen and stroked her hair with his free hand. “But maybe the next one will hold off for a while, long enough for me to help you mend that leg anyway.”

  “Money will be a problem. I’m currently unemployed, in case you forgot.”

  “I’ve got friends in Washington now. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Must feel strange.”

  “Having friends?”

  “In Washington, anyway. Plan on staying?”

  “Depends on how I’m treated,” Blaine told her. “I was a resident before. I didn’t like the company. No pun intended.”

  “Times change.”

  “Not really. But people do, and maybe the cycle’s come round again. It’s not who you bring to the dance, Kris, it’s who you leave with.”

  She looked down at her heavily bandaged leg. “No dancing for me for a while.”

  “Then we’ll have to find something else to do in the meantime.”

  He pulled her head close to him and kissed her warmly.

  “Looking for something, Indian?”

  McCracken stopped a yard short of Johnny Wareagle, who was staring intently at one of the black slab sections of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

  “The missing names of those who served with us,” Johnny said without turning. A sling he had already stopped using hung down from his damaged left shoulder. “I have stood here imagining them incised on the black amid the others, Blainey.” He swung slowly at last. “I liked the sight.”

  “You’ve got some favors coming to you too, Indian.”

  Wareagle gazed back at the memorial. “Enough to make them add the names, Blainey?”

  “Maybe. Folks here in the capital are in a real appeasing mood right now. Saturday night gave them another way of looking at things.”

  Th
e nuclear warheads Wareagle had kept from Traggeo’s possession were still under heavy guard in the abandoned Colorado mine. There was no way to salvage the green containers Boy Scout Troop 116 had helped him unload until the renewed spring warmth melted all of the snow and made it safe for trucks to negotiate Mountain Pass. Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after.

  Wareagle regarded McCracken skeptically. “Are these folks looking through your eyes, Blainey, or are you looking through theirs?” He paused and took a step away from the memorial. “Years ago we shared our separate partings from them because we had convinced ourselves we were outsiders. But we were wrong, too close to the center to realize where we stood in relation to those who scorned us. They are the true outsiders. Yet they don’t realize it, because from their perspective everything revolves around them.”

  “The battle of Washington may have broadened that perspective.”

  “Only for a time, Blainey. Take advantage of it while it is there.”

  “I plan to, Indian.”

  It began with a nineteen-point single-day drop on Wall Street, fueled by rumors of an investigation into fraud over government contracts. The IRS issued its own statement. The Justice Department had convened a grand jury. In a mere forty-eight-hour period, Dodd Industries and its many subdivisions had plunged to the verge of bankruptcy as panicked selling shook markets all across the world.

  On the nation’s docks, the longshoremen’s union refused to load or unload any Dodd freighter. Dodd Industries’ international shipping business was brought to a halt when its jets were denied clearance to file flight plans to airports from Los Angeles to Sydney, to Tokyo, to London. A strike shut down the conglomerate’s industrial and manufacturing plants. And all this shared a front-page item on every major national daily detailing a long litany of bribes Sam Jack Dodd had passed to help build his empire. Indictments were pending.

  It was just the beginning. And also the end.

  Samuel Jackson Dodd would never stand trial for treason. The carefully placed rumors of his part in the near destruction of Washington were enough to do the job, even if the collective truths of his past hadn’t suddenly been exposed.

  With the authority and backing of the. White House, Blaine McCracken had put his strategy into effect by making quiet visits to a number of individuals in the proper unions, brokerage houses, and government agencies. None were told all, but all were told enough to want Samuel Jackson Dodd put out of business for good. Dodd might escape jail, but not the scandal certain to strip him of his vast power and prevent the day of the Delphi from ever dawning again.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Day of the Delphi marks a new beginning for me with the Tor publishing family, the wonder of which starts at the top with Tom Doherty, as great a man as he is a publisher. Tom is even greater for assigning me to a brilliant editor, Natalia Aponte, who took my final draft and helped turn it into something much better.

  Of course none of this would have ever happened without my agent Toni Mendez’s dogged persistence and faith. Toni, you just keep getting better, as does Ann Maurer, who lived every line of this book with me from the first draft.

  Walt Mattison (the real Blaine McCracken) and Emery Pineo continue to keep me on the straight and narrow when it comes to armaments and technologies. Genuises both, especially Emery, who makes answers to all my questions just a phone call away. And now that Dr. Mort Korn has retired, South Florida’s loss has become my gain, since he has more time to peruse my early drafts.

  For a great weekend in Washington where much of this book took shape, my thanks to Skip Trahan, the ultimate tour guide, although I think next time we’ll skip Dupont Circle.

  Thanks to Andy Stearns, Michael Weinberg, and Colin Burgess for help with the Coconut Grove geo. And to Jane Bosman for South Africa, Dick Shartenberg for New Mexico, Nancy Bercovitz for promotional input, and political scientist Gary Eddins for his help deciphering the inner workings of the government. Acknowledgment must also go to a superb study of trilateralism edited by Holly Sklar.1

  And finally a special thanks to the gang at Steeple Street, who suffered through my weekly progress reports, and especially Joni Kopels, who made it through a whole manuscript!

  Other books by Jon Land

  The Alpha Deception

  The Council of Ten

  The Doomsday Spiral

  The Eighth Trumpet

  The Gamma Option

  Labyrinth

  The Lucifer Directive

  The Ninth Dominion

  The Omega Command

  The Omicron Legion

  The Valhalla Testament

  The Vengeance of the Tau

  Vortex

  DEMOCRACY UNDER SEIGE!

  “Who do we need?”

  “Sam Jack Dodd!”

  “When do we need him?”

  “Now!

  To a man and woman, all of the marchers carried mounted posters of Samuel Jackson Dodd, the charismatic billionaire who had captured the nation’s fancy in the wake of a disastrous first eighteen months for the new president. The gridlock that was supposed to end only tightened, and a slew of broken promises later, his approval ratings had sunk into the high twenties. After a brief respite, the economy faltered again with no measures the administration enacted able to halt the slide. With nowhere else to turn, much of the nation was turning away.

  Toward Samuel Jackson Dodd.

  “Give me a crackling fireplace on a cold night, a damned good cognac, and Jon Land’s DAY OF THE DELPHI .. then leave me the hell alone so I can enjoy myself.”

  —David Hagberg, author of COUNTDOWN and CRITICAL MASS

  “Tom Clancy and Stephen Coonts step aside. Jon Land is the new master of the political thriller, with plot twists for the ’90’s. Characters that jump off the page and breathless pace make him the new one to beat.”

  —Ralph Arnote, author of FALLEN IDOLS

  Coming soon from Tor Books …

  THE KINGDOM OF THE SEVEN

  A Blaine McCracken Novel

  by Jon Land

  Enjoy the following preview!

  PROLOGUE

  “What d’ya make of that?”

  Officer Joe Langhorn turned slowly into the sun, inching the Arizona Highway Patrol car toward the shape on the side of the road. On first glance he had passed it off as a Hefty bag discarded by some lunkhead in a Winnebago too impatient to wait for the next rest stop. But now he was thinking it could be a coyote or even a mountain lion. Road kill of a bumper-bending sort.

  “Jesus Christ, Wayne, is that a …”

  His partner, Wayne Denbo, held a hand up to shield his eyes, then pulled it away along with his sunglasses.

  “Shit,” Denbo muttered. “Pull over.”

  “I’ll call it in,” from Langhorn, reaching for the mike stand.

  “Wait till we’re sure.”

  Denbo climbed out his door first once the cruiser had ground to a halt on the sand-washed pavement. He had redonned his sunglasses, gun flap unsnapped out of habit. Langhorn drew up even in time for the next wave of sand to slap him in the face.

  “I’m sure enough now,” he said after it had passed.

  The shape suspended halfway over the shoulder embankment belonged to a man. The flapping of a black shirt spilling out of his pants accounted for the illusion of a discarded Hefty bag. His outstretched, sand-caked arms were tawny enough to look like the limbs of some unfortunate mountain predator. Not a coyote, but road kill quite possibly after all.

  Langhorn waited with his gaze half on the cruiser while Denbo leaned over the body and felt about its neck for a pulse.

  “He’s still alive,” Denbo said, looking up.

  “I’m calling this in now.”

  “’The fuck, Joe. Bring my thermos over.”

  It was a Dunkin’ Donuts jumbo, the kind that came free with enough coffee to fill it. Except Wayne Denbo always filled it with iced tea. Every day that Joe Langhorn could remember since they’d been paired up on this route.


  The ice had long melted and what contents had survived the morning sloshed about inside. Joe Langhorn delivered it to his partner, who had just turned the man-shape onto his back.

  “He hasn’t been here long,” Denbo reported. “Couple hours maybe.”

  “Hit by a car maybe?”

  “Don’t think so. He’s got no bruises or abrasions I can find.”

  Langhorn gazed around into the emptiness that stretched in all directions. “Where’s his car? How the fuck he get out here?”

  The shape moaned. Denbo lifted his head and tapped his cheek lightly.

  “Mister? Come on, mister, wake up. Come on … .”

  “You check for ID?”

  Denbo flipped his partner a wallet he had pulled from the shape’s pants pocket. Langhorn bobbled it briefly, then grabbed hold.

  “Name’s Frank McBride,” he reported, after locating the man’s driver’s license. “From Beaver Falls. Twenty miles west down the highway.”

  “Twelve walking ’cross the sand.”

  “You figure that’s how he got himself here?”

  “Look at him.”

  Langhorn didn’t really want to. Whatever it was would make a man walk a dozen miles straight into the heat of the day was beyond anything he could conceive. “Thinking about calling this in, Wayne.”

  But Denbo still had the shape’s head cradled, a half cup of brown-black iced tea pressed against his lips. He saw something tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket and reached for it.

  “What’s that?” Langhorn asked.

  “Airline ticket envelope.” Denbo opened it. “Empty.”

  “Maybe they canceled his flight, so he decided to walk.”

  The senior man’s eyes scorned his partner for the failed attempt at humor.

  “Sorry.”

  Denbo lifted the iced tea away from the unconscious man’s lips. “Come on, Mr. McBride. It’s okay now. You’re all right. Wake up. Wake up.”