Blasphemy

by Douglas Preston

  “Got any theories about what’s going on?”

  Lockwood’s mind had been racing through the possibilities, none of which made sense. He controlled the panic welling inside, keeping his voice steady and calm. “I’m not sure I’ve got a clear handle on it.”

  “Could we be dealing with some kind of internal mutiny? Sabotage?”

  “It’s possible.”

  The President turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sitting in his office in the Pentagon, wearing his rumpled field uniform. “General, you’re in charge of the rapid response units, where’s the closest one?”

  “Nellis AFB, in Nevada.”

  “National Guard Unit?”

  “Flagstaff.”

  “FBI? Where’s the closest field office?”

  Jack Strand, the FBI Director, answered from his screen. “Also Flagstaff.”

  The president thought, his brow furrowed, tapping his finger on the table. “General, have them send out the closest chopper to investigate.”

  At this, Gordon Galdone, the campaign chief, shifted his bulk, sighed, and pressed a finger to his soft lips.

  The oracle speaks, thought Lockwood sourly.

  “Mr. President?” The man had an orotund voice, not unlike Orson Welles in his obese years.

  “Yes, Gordon?”

  “May I point out that this is not just a scientific or even military problem? It’s a political problem. For weeks the press and others have been asking why Isabella isn’t online. The Times ran an editorial last week. Four days ago a scientist committed suicide. We’ve got a firestorm among the Christian fundamentalists. Now the scientists won’t answer their telephones. On top of that, we have a science adviser who is freelancing as a spy.”

  “Gordon, I approved it,” said the president.

  Galdone continued unperturbed. “Mr. President, we are heading into a public relations disaster. You supported the Isabella project. You’re identified with it. You’re going to take a big hit—unless we solve this problem right away. Sending out a chopper to investigate is too little, too late. It’ll take all night and things will still be a mess in the morning. God help us when the media gets hold of this.”

  “So what do you propose, Gordon?”

  “To fix the problem by tomorrow morning.”

  “How?”

  “Send in a teamequipped to take control of Isabella and shut it down—and escort the scientists off the premises.”

  “Just a minute,” the president said. “The Isabella project is the best thing I’ve done. I’ll be damned if I’ll shut it down!”

  “You shut it down or it will shut you down.”

  Lockwood was shocked to hear an adviser address the president so rudely.

  Morton spoke. “Mr. President, I agree with Gordon. We’re less than two months from the election. We don’t have the luxury of time. We’ve got to shut down the Isabella project tonight. We can sort it all out later.”

  “We don’t even know what the hell’s going on out there,” the president said. “How do you know we’re not dealing with some kind of terrorist attack or hostage situation?”

  “Perhaps we are,” said Morton.

  A silence. The president turned to his National Security Advisor, on a flat panel. “You got a hint of something going down anywhere in national intelligence?”

  “Nothing that we’re aware of, Mr. President.”

  “All right, let’s send in a team. Armed and ready for any level of conflict. But no big mobilization, nothing that would alert the press or make us look stupid later. A small, elite, SWAT-type team, highly trained—to get in there, secure the damn place, shut it down, and escort the scientists out. The operation to be completed by dawn.” He sat back. “Okay: Who can do it?”

  The Director of the FBI spoke. “The Rocky Mountain Hostage Rescue Team is based in Denver, less than four hundred miles from the Isabella project. Eleven highly capable men, all ex-Delta, specifically trained to operate on American soil.”

  “Yes, but here at the CIA—,” began the DCI.

  “Great.” The president cut him off and turned to Lockwood. “Stan? What do you think?”

  Lockwood struggled to keep his voice calm. “Mr. President, in my opinion this talk of a commando raid is premature. I strongly agree with what you said earlier—we should find out what’s going on first. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Send a helicopter out there with some people to knock on the door, so to speak.”

  Morton spoke in a crisp voice. “Tomorrow morning, every TV news station in the country will be out there. We’ll be operating under a media microscope. Our freedom of action will be gone. If for some reason the scientists have barricaded themselves in there, it could be Waco all over again.”

  “Waco?” repeated Lockwood incredulously. “We’re talking about twelve eminent scientists here led by a Nobel laureate. These are not a bunch of crazy cultists!”

  The chief of staff turned to the president. “Mr. President, I can’t emphasize strongly enough that this operation must be completed without fail by dawn. Everything will change when the media arrive. We don’t have time to send someone out there to ‘knock on doors.’ ” His voice rose with sarcasm.

  “I absolutely concur,” said Galdone.

  “No alternative?” asked the president quietly.

  “None.”

  Lockwood swallowed. He felt sick. He had lost the argument and now he would be forced to participate in the shutting down of Isabella. “The operation you propose may present some difficulties.”

  “Explain.”

  “You can’t just cut power to Isabella. It could cause an explosion. The power flows are tricky and can only be controlled from within, by the computer. If for some reason the scientific team inside isn’t... cooperating, you’ll need to have someone along who can shut down Isabella safely.”

  “Who do you recommend?”

  “That same man I mentioned earlier up at Los Alamos, Bernard Wolf.”

  “We’ll send a chopper to fetch him. How about getting in?”

  “The access door to the Bunker is hardened against external attack. All the forced air systems are highly secure. If the team won’t or can’t open the front doors, it may be difficult to reach them.”

  “There’s no security override?”

  “DHS felt an override might allow a point of entry for terrorists.”

  “How do we get in, then?”

  God, how he hated this. “The best way would be straight in through the front door, with explosives. It’s halfway down a sheer cliff. There’s a large staging area in front, but much of it’s recessed under the cliff and I’m sure you couldn’t land a military helicopter in there. You’ll have to land the team on top and rappel down, then breach the door. I’m describing a worst-case scenario. The scientists will probably just let the team in.”

  “How’d they get heavy equipment in there if there’s no road?”

  “They used the old coal-mine road, then dynamited it off the side of the mountainside when Isabella was complete. Again—security.”

  “I see. Tell me more about this entry door.”

  “It’s a titanium honeycomb composite. Very hard to cut. Explosives would be the way to go.”

  “Get me the specs on it. And then?”

  “Inside, there’s a big cavern. Straight ahead is the Isabella tunnel. To the left is the control room, which we call the Bridge. Its door is one-inch stainless steel, a final defense against entry. I’ll get you the blueprints.”

  “That’s it for security?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “The SIO, Wardlaw, carries a sidearm. No other firearms are allowed.”

  Morton turned to the president. “Mr. President, we need your order to go ahead with this operation.”

  Lockwood watched as the president hesitated, glanced at him, then looked over to the FBI Director. “Send in the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Get the scientists out of the m
ountain and shut Isabella down.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The chief of staff slapped his briefing file shut with a smack, the sound like a slap to Lockwood’s face.

  50

  A WHINING SINGSONG KEENED THROUGH THE BUNKER. The screen flickered. Ford stood rooted before the Visualizer, Kate beside him. Somehow, he didn’t remember when her hand had found his.

  In response to Hazelius’s question, more words appeared on the screen.

  The great monotheistic religions were a necessary stage in the development of human culture. Your task is to guide the human race to the next belief system.

  “Which is?”

  Science.

  That’s ridiculous—science can’t be a religion!“ said Hazelius.

  You have already started a new religion—only you refuse to see it. Religion was once a way to make sense of the world. Science has now taken over this role.

  “Science and religion are two different things,” Ford broke in. “They ask different questions and require different kinds of evidence.”

  Science and religion both seek the same thing: truth. There can be no reconciliation between the two. The collision of worldviews is well under way and worsening. Science has already refuted most of the core beliefs of the world’s historical religions, bringing those religions into a state of turmoil. Your task is to help humanity chart a path through the crisis.

  “Oh, please!” Edelstein cried. “You think the fanatics in the Middle East—or the Bible Belt, for that matter—are going to roll over and accept science as the new religion? That’s crazy.”

  You will offer the world my words and the story of what happened here. Do not underestimate my power—the power of truth.

  “Where are we supposed to be going with this new religion? What’s the point of it? Who needs it?” Hazelius asked.

  The immediate goal of humankind is to escape the limits of biochemistry. You must free your mind from the meat of your bodies.

  “The meat? I don’t understand,” said Hazelius.

  Meat. Nerves. Cells. Biochemistry. The medium by which you think. You must free your mind from the meat.

  “How?”

  You have already begun to process information beyond your meat existence through computers. You will soon find a way to process it using quantum-state computing machines, which will lead you to harness the natural quantum processes in the world around you as a means of computation. No longer will you need to build machines to process information. You will expand into the universe, literally and figuratively, as other intelligent entities have expanded before you. You will escape the prison of biological intelligence.

  “Then what?”

  Over time, you will link up with other expanded intelligences. All these linked intelligences will discover a way to merge into a third stage of mind that will comprehend the simple reality that is at the heart of existence.

  “And that’s it? That’s what it’s all about?” Kate asked.

  No. That is merely a prelude to a greater task.

  The Visualizer flickered, lines of snow shooting across. Dolby labored at his workstation, hunkered down and silent. The words rippled, as if reflected in black water.

  “Which is what?” Hazelius finally asked.

  Arresting the heat death of the universe.

  Ford felt Kate’s hand instinctively tighten around his.

  51

  BOOKER CRAWLEY TOOK THE CUP OF coffee into his study and settled in his chair in front of the TV. Once again he picked up the remote and flipped through the news stations. Nothing. There didn’t seem to be any blowback from the wild accusations Spates had made on his show. Still, Crawley couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to happen. He glanced at the clock. It was thirty minutes past one, eastern daylight time—eleven thirty in Arizona. Or was it ten thirty?

  He exhaled and swallowed a bitter mouthful of coffee. He was getting worked up over nothing. So far everything had gone as planned, and Spates’s show, even if it was nutty, was sure to scare the crap out of the Navajo Tribal Council.

  That thought made him feel better.

  Still... It wouldn’t hurt to check in with Spates and find out where the hell he had gotten that crazy information about Isabella claiming it was God.

  He dialed Spates’s office number first, on the off chance he might still be at work. Surprisingly, the line was busy. No voice mail, just busy. He waited several minutes and dialed again, then again, still without getting through.

  Probably out of order.

  He dialed Spates’s cell number next, and got routed immediately to his voice mail. “You have reached the voice mailbox of Reverend Don T. Spates,” a pleasant female voice said. “The mailbox is currently full. Please try later.”

  Crawley dialed the reverend’s home phone. It, too, was busy.

  Christ, it was stuffy in the study. He walked to the window, unlatched it, and slid it open. A stream of night air, fresh and lovely, washed in, swelling the lace curtains. He took a few deep breaths. He told himself again there was no reason for alarm. He sipped his coffee while staring into the darkened street, wondering what exactly had him spooked. A busy phone?

  The reverend would have a Web site. Maybe there would be information posted there.

  He sat down at his desk, booted up his laptop, and Googled:

  Spates God’s Prime Time

  The first hit was indeed the televangelist’s official Web site, www .godsprimetime.com. He clicked on the link and waited.

  After a frustrating minute, an error message appeared.

  BANDWIDTH LIMIT EXCEEDED

  The server is temporarily unable to service your request due to the site owner reaching bandwidth limit. Please try again later.

  Apache/1.3.37 Server at www.godsprimetime.com Port 80

  His uneasiness climbed a notch. Busy phones, server down... Could Spates’s Web site be under a denial-of-service attack? Maybe other Christian sites would have posted something.

  He Googled:

  Isabella God Spates

  A bunch of unfamiliar Christian Web sites came up, with names like jesus-is-savior.com, raptureready.com, antichrist.com. He clicked on a link at random and immediately it opened to a document.

  My Friends in Christ,

  Many of you watched the show Roundtable America earlier tonight, hosted by the Reverend Don T. Spates...

  Crawley read the letter once. He read it again. A faint chill crawled up his spine. So this was Spates’s source, a nutcase pastor out there in Navajoland. The note at the bottom indicated the crazy pastor had sent the letter just a few hours ago. From the list of hits it seemed to have been posted at a fair number of Web sites.

  How many? There was a way to find out. He Googled the first sentence of the letter, enclosing it in quotation marks to retrieve only Web sites that had posted the exact text. A split second later the list of hits came up. The standard notation at the top indicated how many:

  Results 1–10 of about 56,500 for “Many of you watched the show Roundtable America earlier tonight, hosted by the Reverend Don T. Spates”

  For a long time Crawley sat in the silent Georgetown study. Could it be true that the letter had already been posted to over fifty thousand Web sites? Unthinkable. He breathed in and out, steadying himself. If his role behind Spates’s attack on the Isabella project should become known, he’d fall harder than his old pal Jack Abramoff. The problem was, when he got down to it, he really didn’t know much about Spates and his evangelical orbit. Crawley felt like a man who’d casually thrown a rock into a dark place and now could hear dozens of buzzing rattlesnakes. He rose again, walked to the window. Outside, Georgetown slept. The street was empty. The world was at peace.

  As he stood, he heard his computer chime, indicating he had received an e-mail. He walked back to check it out. A little window popped up to give him the subject heading:

  Fwd:Fwd: Red Mesa = Armageddon

  He opened it up, began readin
g, and was shocked to find it was the exact same letter he had just read. Did someone know about his contact with Spates? Was this some kind of veiled threat? Had Spates sent this to him? But when he looked at the vast header over the e-mail, listing dozens of e-mail addresses, he realized he had not been singled out. Nor did he recognize the address of the sender. This was a scattershot e-mail, viral marketing as it were. Viral marketing for Armageddon. And it had come into his mailbox by chance.

  As he read the letter again in disbelief, trying to guess the probability of his getting that particular e-mail at that particular moment, his mail program chimed again and another e-mail appeared. It had the same subject heading — almost.

  Fwd:Fwd:Fwd:Fwd: Red Mesa = Armageddon

  Booker Crawley grasped the arms of his chair and rose unsteadily. As he made his way across the study, the computer chimed again, and again, as more e-mails hit it. He staggered into the bathroom at the far end of his study. Gripping the edge of the sink with one hand and holding his tie back with the other, he vomited.

  52

  BERN WOLF HUNKERED DOWN IN THE bay of the chopper, chewing nervously on a cud of gum and watching eleven heavily armed men dressed in black climb on board and settle silently into their seats. The only insignia on their uniforms was a small FBI shield on the breast. Wolf felt uncomfortable in his camouflage gear, flac jacket and helmet. He tried without success to adjust his gangly limbs into something reminiscent of comfort, shifted irritably, and crossed his arms. His ponytail stuck out from under the helmet and he didn’t have to see himself in a mirror to know it looked ridiculous. His head was sweating and his ears rang from the first leg of the flight.

  Once the men had buckled in, the helicopter took off, rising into the night sky, turned, and accelerated. A gibbous moon had risen, bathing the desert landscape below in a silvery sheen.

  Wolf chewed and chewed. What the hell was going on? He’d been roused out of his house without explanation, dragged out to the Los Alamos airstrip, hustled into a chopper. Nobody would tell him a bloody thing. It was like the beginning of a bad film.