Now that he had stopped, the warmth that had come from his desperate scramble to get away from Henderson House leached away in the icy water that dripped from his clothes. The tremors that started in his extremities now moved into his core, growing in power until his teeth chattered audibly.
His janitor’s pants were ripped from crotch to knee, thanks to an old piece of razor wire just beneath the surface of the stream. Just how badly he had cut himself he could only guess. Considering the fact that he hadn’t yet passed out, the wound couldn’t be that bad. Then again, the shaking might not be solely due to hypothermia.
Freddy sank to the ground, hugging the small pack with his camera and recorder tucked damply inside, trying to clear his head enough to come up with a plan. A quick review of his situation wasn’t comforting.
His fucking car was half a mile away, inside the Henderson House compound. No chance of getting that. In his desperate flight he hadn’t even had a chance to grab his jacket. At least the dogs had lost his trail in the stream. If he could just make his way down to the lake, he could steal a boat. Not that a boat would take him far on that little lake, but it would give him more separation from his hunters. Plus, if he could get down to the flood-control dam, it was only a short hike to a warehouse where he had seen some interstate trucks and trailers.
After that…well, one step at a time.
Success Lake had a marina just a short distance from where Success Valley Drive crossed highway 190. To Freddy it sounded like it had been named at a multilevel marketing convention. Hell, if he got that far he might just sign up for their business opportunity himself. After all, a little extra soap never hurt anybody. Those poor bastards in the depths below Henderson House could have used some.
Freddy shook his head to clear it. He must be fucking delirious. One thing was for sure, if he stayed here much longer, he’d find himself down in that hellhole. So much for his second Pulitzer. So much for putting a stop to that madness.
Patting the camera bag one last time, Freddy forced himself back into the cold water. He might have lost all the photos left hanging in his hotel darkroom, but what he carried in that bag was enough. Enough to bring down Dr. Stephenson. Enough to bring down a president.
120
Pieces of the alien machine floated in the air around him as Raul worked, each one tracked and catalogued by the ship’s improving neural network, each compared against specifications stored deep in the Rho Ship’s database.
If he had worked hard before, it was nothing compared to the way Raul now drove himself. As shocked and angry as he had been to discover Dr. Stephenson’s ability to override his commands to some of the Rho Ship’s systems, the task the deputy directory had offered him captured his imagination so vividly that Raul put everything else aside. Dr. Stephenson’s interest focused on a particular machine, one that had been heavily damaged by the weapon that had sent the Rho Ship crashing to earth.
For more than twelve hours, Dr. Stephenson had taken Raul through a series of equations and diagrams illustrating what he wanted done and making an offer so attractive that Raul had leaped at the opportunity. As he had listened, applying the full computational powers of his networked brain, he found himself more and more impressed with the span of Stephenson’s intelligence.
Somehow, without Raul’s level of access to the Rho Ship’s alien computing powers, the physicist had figured out the purpose of the machine in question. Not only that, he had worked out, with amazing accuracy, the underlying theory to its operation. Looking at the equations was like opening a hinge in Raul’s mind, unlocking parts of his database that, although damaged, filled in pieces of the jigsaw puzzle he would need to get the thing working again.
Another shocking development was the way his data search revealed blocks of historical data on the alien technology that had enabled the Rho Ship to travel the stars. Unlike the subspace technology employed by the Enemy, the Makers had mastered the manipulation of gravity. Their ability to warp the space-time continuum extended well beyond the little worm fibers Raul had been able to recreate, allowing for the production of much larger discontinuities, holes in space large enough to transport objects the size of the starship.
The larger the hole, the greater the spanned distance, the more time it needed to remain open, the greater the energy needed to produce the space-time fold. The machine he was working on was what made the large folds possible. And even though there was no way the Rho Ship’s damaged power systems could produce anything close to an interstellar fold, it should be possible to produce one sufficient for earthbound transport. That was the breakthrough Stephenson wanted.
And in return, he had offered to let Raul pass through and return with a companion of his choosing. Raul’s heart rate and breathing increased as his mind played with that thought. He would create a doorway through which he could pull Heather back to him, a completely untraceable action that would deliver his soul mate. And once Raul had her where he was a god, he would introduce her to pleasures beyond her wildest imaginings.
Raul refocused his attention on his work. At the current rate, repairs to the machine would be complete in another 184 hours and 13 minutes. After that he needed to shift his efforts back to the repair of additional power cells. What he needed to do would certainly take far more energy than he currently had available, especially since he needed to maintain plenty of shipboard reserves. It wouldn’t do to transport Heather but kill his Rho Ship in the process. Once completely drained, there would be no way to restart it.
Raul flexed his mind, feeling the energy crackle through his neural network, drawing on the working power supplies to fuse two damaged conduits.
184 hours, 12 minutes, 23 seconds…and counting.
121
The rural house just off Mattaponi Reservation Circle backed up against heavily wooded Virginia countryside. Although the tribe claimed over four hundred members, the number of residents living on the hundred and fifty acres of reservation land that snuggled up against the Mattaponi river had shrunk to around seventy-five. Seventy-six if you counted Janet. Clad in the manner of the locals, with her dark hair, skin, and pregnant belly, few outsiders would have given her a second glance.
Tall Bear’s connections never ceased to amaze her. She had been accepted into the tiny community with a warmth and protectiveness beyond what she could have expected. And although she received more than a few questioning looks from the young ones, the stoic elders of the river people quickly squelched any open inquiries. Janet didn’t know what Tall Bear had told them, but they seemed to regard her with a respect reserved for heroes from the Indian nation’s proud past.
The location was exactly what she needed, an isolated community just on the northwestern side of West Point, Virginia, less than a three hours’ drive from D.C. She’d been given access to a high-speed Internet connection, provided food, fresh clothing, and a secure place to stay. The nine members of the tribal council had been unwilling to accept her thanks. Whatever they thought she was doing had been deemed worthy of their support. As far as they were concerned, that ended all discussion of the matter.
So, while the tribe went about their daily business, Janet returned to hers. Jack was out there somewhere within half a day’s drive from where she sat with her laptop. The first thing she needed was to let him know what she’d learned about the Colombian known as El Chupacabra. Next she needed to ask Jack for a meeting time and location to share her theory about the McFarland and Smythe kids.
Janet smiled to herself as she rubbed her abdomen. Jack’s child. What would he think when he saw her dark brown, round little body? It’d be worth the trip just to see the expression on his face. At least she hoped it would.
Pulling the Heckler & Koch 9mm Compact from the small holster strapped beneath her left arm, Janet set it on the table beside her laptop. Even after she finished posting her coded message to the Internet, it might be a long wait before Jack got back to her.
Might as well get comfortable.
>
122
President Gordon leaned back in his chair, feeling the even bulges in the burgundy leather press against his back. Pushing away from his desk, he glanced at the narrow grandfather clock that occupied the wall between the window and the large painting that hung immediately behind his desk.
10:36 p.m.
The White House Treaty Room had always been his favorite. He had to admit that his late predecessor’s interior decorator had hit a home run with the room’s simple elegance. The off-white walls and ceiling perfectly framed the dark furniture, and even the wildly colorful rug somehow added to the room’s comfortable feel. Its location next to the Yellow Oval Room on the second floor of the White House made it the perfect private office.
Hearing the distant rumble of thunder, President Gordon walked to the window that looked out across the Truman Balcony over the South Lawn. As a flash of lightning ripped the sky, he began a slow count. Six, seven, eight. The rumble was louder this time, only a mile and a half away. Fat raindrops spattered the room’s eastern window, although none carried beneath the overhang to strike the panes where he stood.
Sliding the latch, the president lifted the window, letting the damp, musty-smelling air fill his lungs. The Secret Service hated for him to stand by a window, much less open one. Didn’t matter. He was the boss and he’d do as he’d always done, exactly as he pleased.
Washington, D.C., rarely got thunderstorms this late in the year, November lending itself more to cold, foggy rain. Tomorrow some damn fool congressman would probably be on television claiming this was proof of global warming.
Gordon glanced up at President Grant’s portrait staring down at him, as if he were expecting something. Shit. The whole fucking world was expecting something.
The news out of Africa couldn’t have been better. Although there’d been some trouble with rioting at distribution centers that ran out of serum, the Marines had quelled the mobs with no loss of American life. And from every region where the nanite formula had been delivered, the effectiveness of the treatment stunned the world monitoring organizations.
Doctors Without Borders reported the complete eradication of HIV and AIDS in the injected populations. Not just AIDS. Every single known disease was being wiped out across Africa. There were even reports of late-stage Ebola virus infections being cured.
But such success had a price. Riots had broken out in countries that were not on the early distribution list. Despite the extensive US production program, the United Nations was up in arms over the limited quantities of serum currently available. They wanted nanites and they wanted them now. When the United States refused to publish the procedure for manufacturing the nanite serum, several countries established scientific programs to reverse engineer the formula by extracting blood from people who had received the injections or by stealing shipments of formula from the distribution centers.
The Russians and Chinese had gone so far as to threaten a military response if the United States failed to assist them in setting up their own production facilities, only backing down after President Gordon threatened to stop all serum shipments.
Not that everyone was thrilled with the worldwide distribution of nanites. Several Muslim leaders had issued a fatwa proclaiming that the serum was a product of Satan and that anyone using it was condemned, both in this life and the next.
Gordon shook his head. No virgins for them.
Numerous American Christian groups hadn’t been happy about the nanite serum either. Between the religious nuts and the right-wing conspiracy theorists, the Secret Service was so busy following up on presidential death threats that he couldn’t sneeze without five agents throwing their bodies on top of him.
The sound of the secure phone ringing brought the president out of his reverie. Returning to his chair, he lifted it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Mr. President, this is Bob Adams.”
“Okay Bob, what’s wrong.” A call from his national security advisor this late at night was never good news.
“We’ve got a problem at Henderson House.”
“Go on.”
“Last night, a janitor without the appropriate clearance gained access to the underground levels and then escaped from the building. So far he’s managed to evade the special security teams sent out to collect him.”
“Why am I just now finding out about this?”
“Apparently, Dr. Frell felt the situation could be contained before he reported it.”
“That stupid bastard!”
“Unfortunately, it gets worse. The janitor was using a false identity.”
“How’d it pass security checks?”
“That’s just it. This was a very professional job, fake background investigation, the works. We still don’t know how he managed it. From items our team found in the hotel where he’s been living, we know who it was.”
“And?”
“And it was Freddy Hagerman. DNA samples from blood found on razor wire at Henderson House confirm it.”
George Gordon clenched his right fist so tightly that his fingernails dug into the skin of his palm, the small cuts healing before he could notice. The name left him cold. Freddy Hagerman. The fucking New York Times reporter who had broken the Priest Williams story.
“Listen to me, Bob. You know as well as I do what a public release of information on that program would do to us, to the country.” President Gordon paused. “I want this moved to absolute top priority. I don’t care what it takes; I want you to nail that son of a bitch before he can go public. You follow me?”
Bob Adams cleared his throat. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“And get me Dr. Frell. I want his ass on the next plane to D.C.” President Gordon slammed the telephone into its cradle without waiting for a response.
The rumble of thunder rattled the window frame, pulling the president’s gaze outward once again. No doubt about it. The coming storm would be a bad one.
123
Jennifer rolled over in bed, stretching her arms until they were fully extended above her head. The sheets smelled good, and the clean smell of freshly laundered linens reminded her just how much her circumstances had improved this last week.
The light of the early morning sun slanted into her room through the French doors, opened wide to the balcony. A loud squawk brought her gaze around to the bird perched atop her open laptop. It was about the size of her hand, its body a brilliant orange from its underbelly to the tip of the long, pointed crest that extended outward from its forehead. Jorge had told her it was a vermillion cardinal, a species native to Colombia and Venezuela. Beautiful.
But it was sitting on her laptop. Probably getting ready to poop all over it.
"Hey. Scat!" Jennifer tossed a pillow in its general direction, sending the bird flying back out through the balcony doors toward the gardens below.
A low chuckle caused her to sit up, pulling her sheet up to her chest.
"I see you had an unwanted helper." Jorge Espeñosa leaned back in the wicker chair across the room, his warm smile spreading the narrow lines of his Fu Manchu moustache.
Jennifer relaxed. "Don Espeñosa. You startled me."
It was the truth. Not needing sleep, Jennifer had been deep in meditation, but not so deep that she shouldn’t have heard him enter her room and sit down.
"My apologies. I thought you'd be up by now. It's a beautiful morning. I came up to invite you to breakfast. There is someone I would very much like for you to meet."
Jennifer let her gaze wander out the window to the gardens that dominated the north side of the drug lord's estate. "Will we be eating down on the patio?"
"Precisely."
Jennifer smiled. "Sounds lovely. Give me twenty minutes."
Don Espeñosa rose from the chair. "Twenty minutes then."
As the don closed the door behind him, Jennifer made her way to the shower, discarding pajamas as she went. Standing under the pounding water, she thought about who she would be meeting. Clea
rly it was someone the don thought important. His voice had held a hint of uncharacteristic eagerness.
This thought gave her pause. By reputation and from her limited dealings with the man, she knew that Jorge Espeñosa had few attachments. He had no wife or children. His only brother had been killed in a battle with Colombian government troops thirteen years ago. His paranoia and distrust of others had led him to create a security structure composed of independent cells, each constantly checking on the others, each cell leader reporting directly to the don.
But within that paranoid mind, Jennifer had found a deep loneliness. Ironically, it was by manipulating both the loneliness and paranoia that she had gained such rapid acceptance into his inner circle, something that had produced a great outcry of distrust from his other advisors. And although Jorge Espeñosa listened to their concerns, he ignored them.
For her part, Jennifer had moved rapidly to prove herself worthy of his trust. Don Espeñosa had set her up with the finest high-speed network money could buy, through which she had immediately begun a scan of all of the cartel accounts. Within hours, she had identified twenty-seven different transaction traces, some initiated by the US government, some by the Colombian government, some from other cartels.
By the end of the first day, she had not only cleansed the suspect transactions, she had hacked her way back through the computer networks conducting the trace, eliminating each record trail at the source.
And as Jennifer worked, the Espeñosa Cartel's top computer experts watched her, stunned by what they were seeing. Her delicate fingers worked the keyboards that surrounded her workstation so rapidly, they found themselves unable to follow what she was doing. But they knew she was breaching the toughest computer firewalls as easily as a husband brushed aside a wedding veil.
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