Collins led them through the door and into a small lobby. There was seating for six to eight along the sides and an unmanned reception desk at the far wall. Tucker looked at the empty receptionist chair and then at Collins with raised eyebrows.
“If we’d known further in advance you were coming,” explained their host, “we’d have put on the dog a little more, but we didn’t have time to get the ceremonial touches in place. So, you will see the place in its day-to-day drone mode.”
“Probably be more informative that way,” replied Tucker.
They moved through the lobby and down a corridor to the left, stopping in front of a large mahogany door that read Randolph Quinn, Facility Director in oversize lettering. It wasn’t particularly ornate, but it projected an executive luxury that contrasted significantly with the more utilitarian style given by the rest of the facility.
“Well, this is where my part of the tour ends. Mr. Quinn will take over from here,” said Collins, adjusting the glasses on his nose. “I must get back to managing. No matter how organized we get, the place still doesn’t seem to run itself,” he said, “other than into the ground.”
“We appreciate your time and especially your, um, diplomacy, Dr. Collins. I hope to see you again as we tour,” Ramona thanked him.
“I do hope so,” replied Dr. Collins, giving a polite smile. “Gentleman, it was an experience meeting you,” he said, winking.
“The pleasure is all ours,” answered Tucker.
Collins knocked twice on the door to the office, opened it and said, “Director, your guests are here.” Turning to the group, he said, “Please, go in.”
Edge instructed Pitch and Trident to remain outside by the door. They immediately took up sentry positions as the others entered. Collins looked briefly at them and, nodding his head slightly, said, “Gentlemen,” before walking towards a door marked “Laboratories.”
The Director’s office was large and softly lit, walled with wood-panel, and decorated with a thick gray carpet. The rear wall was slightly curved and the side walls, each of which had nine HD flat panel displays arranged in a video wall and were angled slightly towards the Director’s desk.
The Director’s desk was oversized with a curved front edge. The first several inches of the desktop were hinged at the front edge and were angled up. A glow indicated that there was a row of smaller, tablet-sized displays facing the Director. The wall behind the desk was a window that presumably overlooked the facility. It was made of LCD glass that could change from transparent to opaque by turning an electric current on or off and, at the moment, the Director had it set to opaque. Six comfortable conference room chairs had been placed facing the desk, a row of two and a row of four behind it. The overall effect was that of an amphitheater where the Director was center stage.
As they entered, the Director rose to greet them, making a quick lateral gesture with his hand. The row of desktop displays folded neatly back against the raised panels which then lowered themselves to form a flat desk surface. As they folded, Edge glimpsed their reflection in the glass wall and saw that they displayed surveillance camera footage.
Randolph Quinn was a tall man, slightly over six feet, trim and well-groomed. His suit was as upscale as his office, and he walked with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to power.
“Agent Xuxa, welcome to our facility. What can I do to help you?” Quinn greeted.
“Director Quinn, thank you for seeing us. This is Agent Dante Tucker, Agent Smith, and Agent McDowell, my colleagues from the CIA.”
“It’s a pleasure,” he replied, shaking hands with each in turn, “but weren’t there two more of you?”
“I have Agents Zingler and Fernandez standing guard outside the office. Please don’t be offended but we are operating on high alert,” Edge explained.
“I’d hope your experience with our security personnel would leave you feeling a little more comfortable now that you’re on the inside,” Quinn said.
Edge smiled. “Nonetheless…”
Quinn nodded. “Well, at least, allow me to give you the scenic part of the tour first,” he said, gesturing to the displays on the side walls. On one side was a view of the forest through which they had just come. On the other was a fairly close view, obviously using a long-range telephoto lens, of the nest of a bald eagle with the male standing tall.
Quinn gestured to the national bird. “You can see all the pictures and videos of them you want, but it’s only when you see them in real life that you realize how magnificent they are and why they are our national symbol.”
“Seems like a lot of money to do bird watching,” Doom vocalized.
“Oh, believe me, all this equipment is used mostly for business. The two cameras are supplemental surveillance that we only use for certain activities, and the displays are used for video conferencing. Still, every once in a while I need to get a glimpse of the outside world to get over feeling like a coal miner,” Quinn stated, self-deprecatingly. “My brother served on missile subs for years; I don’t know how he did it.”
“All you need is a video game system,” Edge concluded.
“What’s your choice of console?” grinned Quinn.
“I’m a HALO man, myself,” replied Edge. With difficulty, Tucker kept a straight face at the double-entendre.
“Well then, if the day goes well maybe, we can do a mission later on,” Quinn suggested.
“I’ll prepare myself,” Edge promised, glancing at Doom, who was barely concealing a smile.
“Please, be seated,” Quinn said, gesturing to the chairs. Tucker and Ramona sat in the two front chairs; Edge and Doom pulled chairs up next to them.
“Director, we are here to conduct a review of your operations,” Ramona began, “particularly in the area of security.”
“I had a feeling this was something serious, especially after the confrontation with the guards at the entrance. I would hope that their actions would convince you that we run a very secure operation,” he repeated his sentiment from earlier.
“Gorillas at the gate are only part of the equation,” said Tucker.”We also need to look at record keeping, proper authorizations for access, and appropriate measures to protect restricted materials in transit.”
“He’s right, Director,’ continued Ramona. “As you are undoubtedly aware, at approximately three forty-five pm on June twenty-ninth, downtown Miami, Miami International Airport and the Turkey Point nuclear power plant were attacked by a person or persons unknown.”
“So what does this have to do with me or my facility?” he questioned, shifting his weight back slightly.
“Your research into weaponizing AM-P technology,” Ramona answered frankly. “Specifically, the AM-P/B missile being developed and manufactured here. Present information indicates that six missiles of that type were used in the attack.”
“Agent Xuxa, as Mr. Tucker has correctly indicated, proper authorizations for access are required,” Quinn replied, intentionally failing to address the matter. “I know you have presented your credentials, but we are still in the process of vetting them. Until I receive adequate confirmation that you are who you say you are and are authorized to make the inquiries you are making, I cannot allow you to go forward.”
“Director, I can assure you that our clearances are genuine. The letter I presented contains identification codes that can be validated in seconds. Just to establish the full scope of why we’re here, we are cleared not only regarding AM-P/B research and manufacturing but anything that may connect to Miami. Please do not make this harder than it has to be,” Ramona countered.
“All the codes in your letter did indeed check out,” Quinn acknowledged, “but given the nature of your inquiries I have taken the extra step of requesting a validation by a cognizant third party to be given directly to me by secure voice line. I have not yet received that, and it has taken longer than I expected, which does cause me some concern,” Quinn finished, somewhat darkly.
“Exactly who is this t
hird party?” demanded Ramona.
“Someone at the CIA in a position to know. I will not identify the person further,” said Quinn.
“But you do admit you’re responsible for the AM-P/B missiles,” snapped Tucker.
“Mr. Tucker, I should that think we both have enough experience with this kind of situation to know that I can neither confirm nor deny any aspect of such things, including whether or not they even exist,” replied Quinn, reproachfully.
After several seconds of awkward silence, a chime accompanied by the flashing of a red light to one side of the office caused Quinn to stand up.
“Excuse me,” he said, walking to the light. He waved his ID, and a concealed door across from the main entrance opened. As he entered, the door’s thickness made it apparent that the small room beyond was soundproofed. After a moment, he emerged from the room minutes later, smiling, and said, “Another complication dealt with. Agent Xuxa, Agent Tucker, your clearances have been fully validated, and I am at your service. If you will give me just a moment to get everything ready…”
He reached into a desk drawer and took out a tablet.
“We should begin with a quick overview of the facility,” he said, making a few taps on the screen. Ramona was about to say that she was familiar with the blueprints when the window behind Quinn’s desk switched to transparent. Wow, she thought. Quinn’s right; the real thing is a lot more impressive than the pictures.
Before them was a huge cylindrical chamber a hundred yards in diameter and two levels high, with a domed ceiling supported by large, arched steel beams. The lower level, twenty feet high, was the manufacturing floor; the second level, about twelve feet high and set back around the outer rim of the manufacturing floor, contained office and laboratory spaces. Suspended from the middle of the ceiling at the height of the second level was a large octagonal control room, where operators ran the cranes and robotic trams that moved materials, parts and assemblies around the manufacturing floor. Catwalks ran diagonally from the corners of the control room to the second level and sets of stairs ran below it down to the manufacturing floor.
“It’s not the largest manufacturing floor ever,” said Quinn, “but carving it out of solid rock is expensive, and even Uncle Sam needs to be as frugal as possible these days, so efficient use of space is critical. The circular shape helps by minimizing distances between the stages of production.
“Shipping and Receiving is located in the far right corner. Development begins there with incoming parts and materials being stored there. Then they get moved to Detail Parts Manufacturing and Sub-assemblies located to the near right. Next, they move to Airframe Final Assembly to the far right, then to Electronics Integration, which takes place to the near left. Finally, they move to Software Installation and System Test to the far left for completion. Then they go into secure storage directly across from us and then out the loading dock when shipped. In fact, there’s a shipment being loaded today; you can see the trailer there by the overhead door.”
“I want that truck held until I can inventory it,” Edge pressed.
“It’s not due to leave for a while yet,” said Quinn, “but its departure window is not especially flexible. Anti-hijacking monitoring systems will expect to see it in transit along a defined route according to a very specific timetable. Otherwise, alarms will be set off, and that will get us into a pile of business that we will all be much happier without.”
“It looks like a trailer full of wood from here,” said Doom.
“Old bootlegger’s trick,” replied Quinn. “The shipping containers for the missiles fit inside an outer layer of boards. As far as anyone can tell, it’s just a load of lumber.”
Doom’s face acknowledged the cleverness, but he asked, “How do they get past weigh stations?”
“The drivers have special credentials that enable them to proceed without detailed scrutiny.”
“Ever get hassled anyway?”
“Once. Some local hero decided he was too important to be kept in the dark and pressed farther than he should have. He quickly received a visit from some people who informed him of the error of his ways in a not especially subtle manner.”
“What happened to him?” Doom wanted to know.
“Oh, after they finished talking to him, they let him go home and change his shorts. He hasn’t been a problem since.”
Just then, a door in the back of the office clicked open, and a man entered wearing the same gray fatigues and a black vest as the guards at the entrance, but with a bit more brass on the collar.
“Allow me to introduce Captain Miller, Chief of our security unit. Captain, I’d like you to meet Agents Xuxa and Tucker of the CIA and Agents Smith and McDowell.”
Remaining silent, the captain shook all their hands.
“So, where would you like to begin?”
Edge stated, “Your missile storage area, along with your inventory and transport documentation.”
Simultaneously, Ramona demanded, “Your testing lab, test scripts, and collected data.”
“Very well: two teams in parallel,” said Quinn. “Captain Miller, would you escort Agent Xuxa to the labs. Call Dr. Wright and make sure she will provide all the necessary data.”
Quinn turned to Edge. “I’ll escort you to the vault where we store the missiles, and you can examine our records at length.”
“Thank you,” Edge replied.
As the exiting the Director’s office, Trident, and Pitch were still standing sentry.
“Director, Captain Miller,” said Ramona, “this is Agent Zingler and Agent Fernandez,” she introduced, gesturing at Trident and Pitch, respectively.
“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Miller said, unconvincingly, as he walked away.
Pitch noticed the lack of sociability and whispered to Doom, “That guy related to you?”
“Wife’s side maybe,” Doom replied with a shrug.
“Agent Tucker, Agent Zingler, please accompany Agent Xuxa. Agents Fernandez and McDowell, you’re with me,” Edge directed.
The six regrouped into the two designated teams.
“Very well,” Quinn said, looking to Captain Miller, who did not hide his distaste for the assignment.
“I’ll call the doctor and have her meet us there. Follow me,” Miller said brusquely as he walked away. Tucker was sure the old man grumbled some unpleasant remarks about Quinn under his breath.
“Yay. We get mister smiles,” Trident said to Tucker as they followed.
“I prefer him over Quinn. I wish Edge luck,” Tucker joked.
As Edge’s group followed Quinn down a separate hallway, another member of Quinn’s security team joined them. He shadowed the group, keeping far enough back that he was not in their conversation, but able to see everything. Pitch noted the man was probably in his late twenties, dark skinned and bald. The young man reminded him of a younger Dust, only with a rounder face. The man’s name tag read “RICE.”
Chapter 10
Brent, the guard, sighed heavily. The credentials checked out and indeed it was Keeast at the door. Great! Twice in one day I have to deal with these morons who think they’re too cool for school. If I pushed the alarm button and gassed the bastard, I wonder if I could convince the boss it was just a wrist cramp and I didn’t mean it? It took him a second or two to overcome his reluctance, but he finally pushed the button that opened the entrance door.
Keeast stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets and head cocked to the side, conveying his annoyance with the delay. Instead of his usual well-tailored business suit, he was wearing equally well-tailored tactical gear. Standing next to him were three men dressed to match.
Tactical gear? I’m positive I saw him wearing a suit as he came down the corridor! He turned to replay the surveillance video on a side monitor and said quietly, “Heads up on the down low,” to Adams and Cooper, the other two guards in the booth. The replay, normally instantaneous, picked this moment to display the message, “Please wait.”
&nb
sp; Brent forced as amiable a tone as he could and said, “Good afternoon, sir. As usual, please place any carryin items and the contents of your pockets on the conveyor belt to be scanned.”
Keeast watched as the other two guards with Brent moved as casually as possible to their high-alert positions. “At this point, Mr. Brent, I think I should have earned some trust.”
“In God we trust, sir; all others we scan.”
“You may find your trust is misplaced, Mr. Brent, but you can take that up with him face-to-face in a minute,” Keeast warned.
Keeast gave a quick forward wave with his hand, and a small figure in black military fatigues sprinted from behind the group, hurdled the scanners with ease, slapped a small box onto the booth glass and dropped to the ground.
Specifically designed to breach this kind of window, the device gripped the glass with a special epoxy. Upon contact, an acidic chemical in its center began to dissolve the surface. Seconds later the one-inch thick glass was no longer stronger than an ordinary window.
Brent instantly hit the security alarm button to release the gas and render the attackers unconscious. The system went to breach alarm mode, all the monitors showing flashing red borders, and then abruptly shut down. He hit the button again and then a third time. Nothing.
Shit! Did they take down the alarm? He wondered, panicking. As he sat there searching for what to do next, the plastic explosive inside the device detonated, shattering the window and sending glass flying into the booth. He tried to cover his face but shards of glass penetrated deep into his eyes and cheeks, he screamed as he fell to the floor. The other two guards were able to shield themselves from the blast and Adams crept forward to help Brent, dragging him to a more sheltered position while keeping his MP5 submachine gun trained on the jagged hole in the window. Cooper, the lead guard, shouted into his radio, sending an alert to the other guards in the facility to prepare while he, too, covered the shattered window with his MP5.
Hitoshi sat on the ground, disdainfully brushing a small amount of glass off his clothes. Being the hand that created their recently updated security system, he had inserted a backdoor login giving him complete access to the facility’s security systems. Hitoshi’s fingers danced across the screen, and the huge main entrance door unlatched and began its ponderous opening.
Rise of the Pheonix: Act 2 Page 12
