Extraordinary precautions, yes. But to leave the intruder in the interrogation room for hours without any clothes, that had been his decision. A surge of emotion ran through him, the power of the moment tingling in his veins. This was, after all, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the most powerful law-enforcement agency in the world. Yet there he was, sleeping naked in his cell.
The problem for James Davies, a problem he apparently didn’t know about, was that he’d been replaced. He wasn’t the FBI Director any longer. He was nothing but a civilian in a world that didn’t appreciate men like him anymore. President Fuentes had put his own man in as Director. James Davies was soon going to find out that he’d lost his job, as well as all of the privileges and protections that had come with his former position.
The general snorted to himself. In an hour or two, James Davies was going to find himself on the road that led away from Raven Rock without so much as a ride to the nearest town.
If he was lucky.
And the general didn’t believe that much in luck anymore. Far more likely Davies would be killed here double glass doorsro finger. Which was fine w whispered.
FIVE
Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex, Southern Pennsylvania
James Davies was led down a crowded hall. Military officers and enlisted men along with an equal number of civilians—middle-aged men and women who had the air and arrogance of career bureaucrats—hurried up and down the halls. A recessed light in the center of each hallway was illuminated white. DEFCON at the highest level. A sense of urgency filled the air.
James wore a black, one-piece jumpsuit and white socks with no shoes. The jumpsuit was too small for him, and though he had loosened the waistband, the cover over the zipper still pulled tight. He walked slowly, his legs stiff, and he didn’t appear to look around.
He was waiting to find a bathroom, but he had to select one that was private, not under surveillance. The entire mission depended on his choice.
They descended a set of cement stairs, working their way lower into the underground government command post, then came to a secure elevator. The two Marines stood on his left and right, each of them keeping a firm grip on one of his elbows. He tried to pull away, but they wouldn’t let him.
“Look at me, boys. I’m an old man. Do you really think I’m going to run?”
It was ridiculous and they all knew it, but still the guards continued holding him tightly, hurting the tendons in his elbows.
They stepped into the elevator and one of the guards flashed his security card in front of the electronic reader, then punched an unmarked button, sending them to the highly secure presidential and executive level. James felt his stomach flutter as the high-speed elevator descended farther into the bowels of the underground command post. The doors opened and he looked out. No more cement floors and bare walls. Deep blue carpet. Expensive artworks. Mahogany and leather everywhere.
They started walking, James almost limping as they moved down the corridor.
There it was—three doors down, just like they had told him it would be. The door was narrow and outlined in dark wood. A man/woman symbol was at the side. A co-ed bathroom, which meant that it would lock. It was on the presidential level, which meant it was far less likely to be monitored. Passing the deeply stained wooden door, he looked pained, then glanced back.
“I’ve got to go,” he whispered to one of the guards.
The guard firmed his grip around his elbow.
James looked back desperately as they moved away. “I’ve really got to go!” he said again. to stop themllShe really didn’t know.
The guard kept moving him along.
James pulled away and stopped. “Look, you fool, I’ve been locked up for hours. I’ve had every inch of my body prodded, examined, poked, and explored. Only one of my many deprivations has been a bathroom. Now, unless you want me to go in the middle of the president’s office, something I promise you I will do, you’d better give me a little time to stop in there.”
The guard hesitated.
James moved toward him. “Do you even know who I am?” he hissed.
The guard looked back blankly.
“I’m Doctor James Davies, the FBI Director—”
“Not any longer, sir. The FBI Director is waiting with the president in the executive suite.”
James almost sneered, “He is not the president and I have not been replaced!” but he bit his tongue, barely keeping his angry words from spouting out. The military guard, a spit-and-polish Marine, stared at him, his face sympathetic but firm. He wasn’t part of any grand conspiracy. He had no idea what was going on; he was just doing his job. As far as he knew—and how could he know any better?—the legally anointed president was commanding Raven Rock.
James glared at him and squirmed. “Look, Marine, I’m not some Cold War spy or Islamic terrorist, for heaven’s sake. I’m your fellow American. I used to serve the president. I was the FBI Director, even if you say I am no longer.”
“We have specific instructions, Mr. Davies.”
“Was part of your instructions to make me wet my pants?”
One guard glanced toward the other.
“Please. A simple bathroom break. This isn’t a big deal.”
The Marine looked quickly back and then said, “They told us to escort you without any delay. We need to do that. The president can be very—” The Marine caught himself and stopped. James knew that Marines assigned to guard the president were one in ten thousand and, regardless of this Marine’s personal feelings or observations, he wouldn’t hesitate for half a second to place himself in front of a bullet to protect his leader. But his oath extended beyond just that; it included utter confidentiality regarding his personal observations of the president, his secrets, the things he saw and heard. He was allowed to guard the president for one overriding reason: He was as loyal to the office as a dog was to his master. So, like Mr. Davies, he found himself biting his tongue.
The Marine hesitated, then nodded hastily toward the bathroom. “Please hurry, sir,” he urged.
James nodded gratefully and turned.
The second Marine followed him as James opened the door and stepped inside. It was a tiny bathroom, barely large enough for one man. The Marine was standing next to him. James looked at him, disgusted. The Marine hesitated, then backed outside and shut the door.
The room was small and simple. A toilet. A small sink. A cloth towel hanging on the wall. A square mirror. Nothing else. He looked around carefully, searching the corners, the walls, underneath the sink, behind the toilet. No cameras or hidden microphones anywhere, at least as far as he could tell. Satisfied, he stood up and checked that the door was locked. Then, his hands shaking, he bent over the small sink.
He didn’t know what to expect. They h of the United States?” apad told him it would be—how had they described it?—terribly unpleasant, but not painful. But they had also warned him to brace himself, to have something he could hold onto and to prepare himself not to groan or cry out loud.
That made him wonder exactly how unpleasant it might really be.
His pulse was pounding in his ears as he leaned over the faux marble sink, made certain the drain was plugged, opened his mouth, reached back onto the artificial molar, felt the thin veneer give way at his touch, took a deep breath, leaned a little lower toward the sink, and squeezed.
He felt a sudden burning and he forced himself to swallow. The ipecac worked just as quickly and as violently as they had told him that it would. In seconds, he was racked with waves of nausea. The waves came at him with a power he had never felt before, gulping heaves of gut-crushing spasms that made him feel like he was going to explode.
He heaved up his last breakfast. He heaved up the lunch before. He felt like he was heaving up every candy bar he had eaten in high school. Wave after wave, he wrenched in silence, the two tiny plastic capsules, unmercifully, the last things to come up.
Forty seconds la
ter, the heaving was complete. He leaned across the bowl, turned on the water, extracted the two one-inch capsules he had regurgitated, and rinsed them off. Using handfuls of disinfectant soap, he washed his hands, his arms, his face, the sink, dried his hands and face, then caught his breath again. Holding the red capsule to the light, he split it open, examined the tiny contents carefully, then knelt beside the sink. Tucked below the basin was a single electrical outlet. He pushed the receiver/transmitter into the socket and left it there, effectively turning Raven’s entire wiring system into a huge antenna. Lifting the blue capsule, he split it open, pulled out the tiny drone, deployed the folded wingtips, and activated the minuscule battery to turn it on. Then, carefully, as if he were holding a live dragonfly, he tucked the tiny drone into his right pocket, constantly aware of the paper-thin wings pressing against his leg.
Dropping the broken capsules into the toilet, he flushed, checked his look in the mirror, opened the door, and walked into the hall.
Offutt Air Force Base, Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command, Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska
Brucius was startled as he stared wide-eyed at the screen. The team of satellite technicians behind him suddenly came to life, typing at their consoles while talking to each other in hushed tones. His heart rate doubled, his fingers subconsciously clenching the edge of the console in a white-knuckled grip. A single drop of perspiration rolled down his left rib. The image on the main screen flickered, then went blank. He waited, his breath heavy. He strained to follow the technicians’ conversation, but they spoke in technical jargon so he couldn’t understand much of anything they said. Glancing over his shoulder, he wanted to scream for information but held his tongue, knowing it wouldn’t do any good aside from releasing his pent-up pressure.
Turning, he looked forward again.
The main screen was still blank.
He waited.
The audio was the first thing to come through. One of the technicians whistled, then slapped the other on the shoulder. Brucius continued waiting, not daring to even hope. Another crackle from the audio.
Behind him, the lead technician left his seat, walked the descending aisle to his right, then approached Brucius from behind. “Baby Dragon has been activated,” he whispered at his shoulder. “We’re not getting of the United States?” apany visual, and the audio is intermittent, but it’s definitely on.”
“So he made it into Raven Rock?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
Brucius took a breath and held it. “And he’s activated the drone’s transmitter?”
“Yes, sir. At the very least, he’s turned it on. Again, we’re getting only intermittent audio signals right now, but if he’s following the plan, that would make sense. The drone hasn’t been deployed.”
“How long until they realize the security violation? How long until they find the mobile—what do you call it—the nest?” asked Brucius.
“Mr. Davies has been able to plug the receiver/transmitter into their electrical system but we don’t know enough yet to estimate how long we have. We’re guessing they’ll pick up the intrusion fairly quickly. But even if they know they’re being violated, it may take them a while to find the bug.”
Another man slipped into the room, young and thin, with wire glasses. It was Brucius’ chief of staff. He moved quickly toward Brucius. The technician moved away.
“I hear the drone’s been activated,” the chief of staff said.
Brucius nodded.
The chief of staff glanced anxiously behind him. “The security teams in Raven are going to locate the nest, we know that. When they find it, they’ll know it’s him. I don’t think they’ll be forgiving. He’s got to get out before that point.”
Brucius grunted. No. Not forgiving. Not these men.
“It’s going to work out,” the chief of staff assured Brucius, reading the worried look on his boss’ face. “They’ll tear Raven Rock to pieces, but the presidential suite is the last place they’ll look. He’ll havehim up and dre
SIX
Offutt Air Force Base, Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command, Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska
Sara Brighton stood outside the metal door, waiting for her meeting with Brucius.
The cinder-block corridor stretched for a hundred feet behind her, suspended fluorescent lights illuminating the white walls and gray cement floor. Over her head, a bundle of electrical cables and air vents hummed softly. The nearest security camera—there were at least a dozen stretching the length of the underground hallway the metal doorllShe really didn’t know.—watched her every move. A red CLASSIFIED BRIEFING IN PROGRESS light was illuminated above the metal door outside the conference room and a small speaker in the ceiling spouted white noise, making it impossible to hear through the heavy door and thick walls—something that seemed remarkably unlikely even without the electronic background noise. Sara Brighton didn’t move, her head down, her eyes on the floor, her mind racing, her heart pounding in her ears.
She shook her head occasionally, as if trying to clear it. But she wasn’t trying to think more clearly. She wasn’t trying to think at all. Too much to think about already. Too much crammed inside her head. Her eyes ached and her neck was stiff. Sometimes it seemed even her brain hurt.
She thought back on everything they had told her: the pictures of the men they said were traitors, where they came from, how they got there, what they now intended to do. The truth was, she didn’t believe it. Not yet. At least, not everything, and maybe she never would. It wasn’t that she thought they were crazy. She just thought they were wrong. There was no way it could be that bad, no way the government could have slipped so far. A few traitors? Yes, maybe she could accept that, she remembered what her husband had told her, but this was very different. This wasn’t a tremor, this was an earthquake, and she almost felt the earth moving beneath her trembling knees.
Time passed. She was tired. They had left her waiting so long she was tempted to lie down on the floor.
She glanced up and down the corridor, wide enough for two forklifts to pass each other, which they often did, metal doors that led to offices, small signs with acronyms she didn’t know. She noted the metal signs over the doors, then looked to the far end of the hallway. A single elevator was waiting, its door held back, the interior empty. She turned and looked the other way to see nothing but forty feet of cinder block that ended in a cement wall.
Minutes passed as she continued to wait. Finally the metal door pushed back and a man she’d never seen before was standing there. “Mrs. Brighton,” he said.
Sara walked toward him.
He moved through the heavy door and let it close behind him. “There’s been a delay, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.” He motioned toward the elevator at the end of the hall and started walking.
Sara didn’t move. “I was waiting for Secretary Marino.”
“I know you were, ma’am.”
“He said—”
“The Secretary’s been delayed.”
Sara watched the stranger. Thin. Wire glasses. Much too young. She wanted to ask what was happening, but she knew he wouldn’t tell her. She hesitated a moment, then followed him down the hall.
“The Secretary thought he’d have some time to see you,” the man explained in a sincere tone. “He sends his apologies. But frankly, right now there isn’t much that he can tell you anyway. The endeavor into Raven Rock has been stalled, leaving us without access to critical information that we need before we can finalize our plan.”
“Do you think—”
He cut her off abruptly. “There really isn’t any more that I can say. We’re still in the information-gathering process. As soon as the Secretary has anything at all to go on, I know he’ll bring you into the loop. He has far too much respect for both you and your husband to of the United States?”ening the leave you hanging. Moreover, he realizes what an important role he has asked you to play. In no way, Mrs. Brighton, does he mean any disre
spect by leaving you waiting. It’s just that he’s a little busy. And regarding our efforts into Raven Rock,lass="ind" aid
SEVEN
Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex, Southern Pennsylvania
The former FBI Director let himself out of the tiny bathroom. His hands were shaking and he knew his face was ashen but there wasn’t anything he could do. If they were suspicious, they would search him. If they searched him, they would find the electrical device he had regurgitated stuffed inside his right pocket, and he would be killed. There wasn’t much more to it. In the next few minutes, he would know.
The two Marines were waiting, obviously impatient. They walked toward him as soon as he appeared. One of them glanced inside the bathroom, pushing the door back to check it out. The room reeked. He instantly recognized the smell. He hesitated just a minute but didn’t say anything.
If the Marine were being dragged to see the president, he would feel sick as well, James thought to himself.
Holding James by the elbows, the Marines started walking down the hall.
Inside his pocket, James kept the tiny drone tucked in a loose fist, protecting it as if it were as fragile as a butterfly, which, of course, it was. Ahead of him, he saw the set of double glass doors etched with the presidential seal. According to the briefing, he’d have to pass through a final electronic sensor on the other side of the glass doors.
He had to get rid of the drone before he got there or they would find it.
Twenty feet or less now.
He had to let it go.
He glanced behind him. No one was there. The hallway up ahead was crowded. More guards waited—two Army officers, one of them holding the door. Pulling his hand out of his pocket, the bug tucked gently in the open space between his fingers, he pretended to cough, and brought his other hand to his mouth as a distraction, then dropped the bug behind him on the carpet floor.
(Wrath-09)-Spiders From The Shadows (2013) Page 4
