"—small airplanes, maybe drones. Cruise missiles? No, they're banking around, not crashing, but this can't be coincidence."
Flames tore across the sky, above one of the planes. The camera followed it for a second until it self-destructed, then followed the thin smoke trail back to the roof of an ornate building just as the “whoosh” reached them.
"—Old Executive Office, the missile launcher on the roof. Now I can see next door, the White House, people running across the roof, carrying weapons. I don't think they have a clean shot. The planes are—what's that? Smoke?"
There was a rattle at the doorknob, then a pounding. “Luci!"
"I'm watching it, Sam!"
Back on the screen, one of the planes had left a white puff in its wake near the Reflecting Pool. “Gas?” said an off-screen voice, probably the cameraman. “Spores? Oh, jeez!"
"An unknown substance,” the reporter said, “emitted by—there's another cloud—"
The camera had gone low to follow the drone. There were now panicked tourists running through the shot, racing like Lucinda's heart. It had been almost a year since the last one of these, and that had just happened, the dust settling before the first camera caught anything. Now—
"More!” The cameraman swung around, catching more dots beyond the Capitol. Figures on the Capitol roof shouldered bulky boxes, but did no more.
"—want to shoot, but I think they're screened, the drones flying just behind the House Office Buildings."
Ice jabbed into Lucinda's heart. Her colleagues were right in the heart of this. Leonard, Vera, and yes, Pavel.
A lance of light shot from one of the gunners. A drone erupted and fell, the laser staying on it all the way down.
"They got one! And this way, another one's going down.” The camera got it just as it fell into the Potomac. “The defenses are working, but now I see more in the south—wait, those are ours!"
A flight of three arrowheaded war-drones split apart. One went for the drone still buzzing the Lincoln Memorial, one for the drones around the Capitol. One kept going straight north.
The camera swung ahead of its path, wobbled, and fixed on a plane swooping into a hard climb. Perspective was deceptive, but it looked like a small private jet a couple miles away.
"—musta been flying rooftop height,” the cameraman said.
"A new plane, a bigger one, part of the attack, we assume—"
Laser fire from the war-drone caught its tail. The plane shuddered, and its climb flattened. The missile pedestal at the Old Executive building fired a volley, and the first missile caught it on the nose.
An image hung in Lucinda's mind from the instant before, a wisp of cloud passing in front of the plane, almost beautiful. It clung there because there were no more images to take its place. The feed had cut out again, and the frame stayed blank. She heard angry shouts down the hall, so it wasn't just her.
She tried to reload, but her browser couldn't find the page. She tried C-SPAN's homepage, with the same effect. Remembering the call letters, she tried WJLA's website, and got a cached page that didn't mention the attacks, and wouldn't show the webcast.
"What the—” Had the government cut off the live news? She'd heard once there were shadowy plans for that, in emergencies. She hadn't liked it then. Now, in this ghastly limbo, she detested it.
She swept out of her office to the conference room, to tell them what little she knew. A few steps from the door, she noticed the silence. Her brain spun into overdrive, thinking of all the possibilities she had been suppressing until now. It didn't stop her from walking in, didn't stop her mouth from saying what she had ready on her tongue.
"I can't get any news. What's—"
She saw their eyes, horrified and sunken, none of which left the screen. She saw Kate holding her cell-pic, forgotten, next to her ear. She knew instantly she didn't want to see what they did, but her legs carried her on inertia, and her eyes turned, by magnetism, to the TV.
Someone was standing with a camera in a parking lot, angle pointed slightly up to the bank of clouds that started several miles off. In the distance, maybe ten miles away, a pillar of smoke had thrust through, boiling upward, flashes of muted but still diabolical orange and red flaring in the huge mushroom cap that topped it.
The camera trembled, its holder's hands unsteady. “We're outside our studio, in Newington, Virginia.” He choked on the next words. “Washington is gone."
* * * *
II
Lucinda drove off-campus on Shattuck, skirting the town of Berkeley itself, dreading to see what might be happening there. She got onto the I-80 Autoway just south of Albany and activated the handoff to computer control. Only when she lifted her hands from the wheel did they start shivering again.
She and the others had watched for almost an hour. It was the same cycle, with little deviation: pieces of the drone attack; the jet carrying the Bomb; shots of the mushroom, now from two angles; footage of President Davis and Vice President Sanchez at the Cabinet meeting, before they were to have gone to Iowa to campaign for Monday's caucuses.
The one variation came when someone got a news-drone into the air. It showed smoke and flame, the stump of what was probably the Washington Monument—then the rising trail of a missile from a Humvee, and static.
That was when it became too much, and she and Sam left. And then Sam—
No, she wouldn't think about that. Nor would she think about what could have happened if she had confronted Pavel directly, not hatched some stratagem that let him and the others go off to Washington. No, she'd go mad if she went on ... if she hadn't already.
She made herself think about Josh, for distraction. She reached for her purse, then realized her phone wasn't in it. She had left it in her office.
Lucinda wasn't going back there. She thought about driving on to Fairfield, where Josh worked, but decided to get back home, settle in, and call him from there. If the municipal building would let her call through, and if Josh was still there, and if—
Another car zoomed past, missing her side mirror by an inch. Traffic was sparse on 80, but much of what was there drove off automatic, very fast and none too steadily. People were panicking: no surprise. A black car came up behind, and Lucinda gripped the wheel tighter. This one passed smoothly, though, for all its speed, and she got a glimpse of opaque windows as it cruised by. Lucinda soon made her turn-off at Richmond. She could see the traffic downtown, nearly gridlocked around the supermarket, and detoured past it. She took side roads through eerily quiet residential areas, and turned onto her home street.
There was a black car parked in front of her house, one with opaque windows. As Lucinda stopped her car two houses down, she saw the business-suited woman leaving her front door and crossing the lawn. A man got out of the black car, and also approached.
She seized the wheel, shifted into reverse ... then let her hands fall. These people didn't look explicitly threatening, and she couldn't immediately spot guns, but she could tell these were not people to mess with. Not today.
The woman arrived at her window, rapping on it. “Dr. Lucinda Peale?” Lucinda looked at her and nodded. The woman checked a handpad, confirming something. “We need you to come with us, now."
Lucinda didn't understand, and it didn't matter. Almost without willing it, she unlatched her belt and opened the door.
* * * *
The black car sped out of town. Lucinda sat in the back, under the woman's gaze, unmoving. She paid no attention to the outside for several miles, except for the subliminal sense of going north, then east. Her mind quietly put the two together, and she looked out the tinted window long enough to confirm it, spying a sign showing the distance to Buchanan Field.
They arrived at the airfield and dashed into the terminal. The woman kept a firm grip on Lucinda's collar, half protecting, half steering. The man ran interference, clearing the way past officials with shouts and a badge. Their passage roiled the already agitated knots of passengers, whom Lucinda saw as
blurs, milling around timetable boards with right columns all in red, and around TV screens she refused to look at.
They went through a door and onto the tarmac, near a small jet with dark-suited men at the bottom of the gangway. They climbed in, and the stairs began rolling away almost before they were inside. The male agent turned to the cockpit. “Have we got clearance?"
"For now. The airspace is shutting down. They might decide—"
Lucinda could hear no more. She was being hustled back, past more agents sitting with phones and computers, through a thin partition—and into the rear section where Nancy LaPierre and Kate Barber were already sitting. They didn't look nearly as surprised as she felt.
Kate had her cell-pic out, hitting redial, just as she had most of that awful hour in the conference room. The escorting agent made her put it away, then strapped Lucinda into her seat. The plane was moving before she finished. Within two minutes, the plane was taking off.
They shot upward, hard and fast. Nancy moaned, holding a hand to her stomach, but kept control. After a few minutes, their ascent angle moderated.
"Lomax, can I see you?” said someone on the other side of the partition. The female agent unbuckled herself and went forward, up a still-tilting deck.
Across the aisle from Lucinda, Kate pulled out her cell-pic again. “Kate,” Lucinda hissed, but she redialed without heeding. “Who can you be calling?"
"Pavel, of course,” Kate said, giving her a quick and unsteady glance. “I have to know if he's all right. He won't—won't pick up, and—"
Lucinda reached across the aisle, grabbing the phone in her hand. “Kate!” Kate looked back, her eyes wide and bright, her mouth twitching at the corners.
Lucinda drew a long, shaking breath. “Remember, Kate? They took his phone before he went into the committee room. He wouldn't have it even—he just doesn't have it. All right?"
Kate's stare held, but the wildness faded out of it. “You're right,” she said. Lomax chose that moment to reappear, snatch the cell-pic away, and go back forward. Kate nearly lost control, settling back into her seat and trembling.
Nancy, behind Kate's seat, caught Lucinda's eye. She mouthed “Thanks.” Lucinda just nodded.
There was low talking ahead. Lucinda listened, catching only pieces. She made out “yield estimate” and “recovery teams,” then nothing for a while. “Anything on the shooter?” she heard, but the reply eluded her.
She gave it up, and turned back to Nancy. “Why did they take you? Us?"
"They never said. They came right into the lab—minutes after you and Sam left—and took us away. I think they left someone behind with Julio.” That was their other grad student. “No explanations."
"And I asked,” Kate added. “Plenty.” She paused a moment, as the plane leveled off. “Well, they're going to answer now,” she said, unbuckling herself, “and if they don't, I—"
"You'll what, Kate?” said Nancy. “March into the cockpit and order the pilot to turn around? They'll...” She couldn't bring herself to say how that would end.
Kate shook her head. “I'm going."
"No,” Lucinda said. "We are. That's the only way to do this."
Her hand had just reached the buckle when a man came through the partition. He was black, young, his face very handsome but also very hard. He turned to Kate. “Please sit down, Ms. Barber.” Disarmed, Kate obeyed.
He looked at the others in turn. “Dr. Peale, I presume. Dr. LaPierre. I'm Morris Hope, NSA.” He produced no card, but nobody doubted him. “I'm deeply sorry for your losses today. I'm also sorry for our abruptness in collecting you, but these are extraordinary circumstances, and minutes may be vital."
"Vital for what?” Lucinda asked.
"For discovering who destroyed Washington."
Lucinda absorbed this. It was the only answer that made sense, but it still answered nothing. “You have suspects? People in custody?"
"Not yet, Doctor. Maybe soon, but we cannot wait for a capture to start bringing in specialists. We'll need to extract information from them very fast—so America can respond fast.” The last words struck Lucinda like the toll of a huge bell.
"We can perform lie detection scans,” Kate said, “but it isn't really our specialty. There are people closer to the scene—"
"We know all about the Penn State method,” Hope said, “and we've got people trained in it. It's only relevant, though, if your subject is answering questions. If he's not, we have to make him want to answer. We have to change his mind."
Finally it was clear to Lucinda, but she got no leisure to consider it. “And I guess torture's not fast enough for you?” Nancy sneered.
Hope took the blow stoically. “There is no current interrogation method—not drugs, not psychological pressure, and not physical torture—that guarantees full or reliable results in anything less than weeks. We don't have weeks. We may not have days."
In the silence that followed, Lucinda finally collected her thoughts. “Why us?” she asked him. “Johns Hopkins is far closer."
"I know, and someone's going there, if I actually got someone to listen to me. But I was out here, so I gathered who I could."
"Here?” repeated Nancy. “Doing what? Spying on us?"
"No! My team was in S—in the area on assignment. I was watching C-SPAN in my room when everything went down. That kinda put you people in mind."
"And did you get the whole team?” Lucinda asked. “Did you find Sam Jeong?"
"Still looking, last I heard,” Hope said.
"Find him, please.” Lucinda got a puzzled look from Nancy. She told her nothing: nothing about what Sam had gone to do, how she hadn't had the nerve to stop him. Or join him. “He can help us,” she told Hope, to cover up those thoughts.
Kate shook her head pensively. “We've never done something like this before, you understand."
"And we won't now,” Nancy said. “You can turn this plane around now, Mr. Hope. We're not going to cooperate."
Kate flared. “Speak for yourself! When did you become boss?"
"Two hours ago. I'm senior surviving member of the team, Ms. Barber, and—"
"You don't know that!"
"Of course we know. Tell her,” she said to Hope. He put his arms behind his back, his face a perfect blank.
"Besides, you don't have seniority,” Kate said, her voice still cracking. “Lucinda was with the program before either of us."
"And you know why she isn't in the chain of command. She accepts that; so should you."
"I don't,” Lucinda snapped. Nancy took it like a slap. “Sam and I were going to quit the team today, at noon, before that became irrelevant.” There was a curious relief in finally saying it, but just a little.
Nancy stared at Lucinda for a second, then turned away, toward Morris Hope. “I won't go into the medical ethics of what you're proposing, Mister. I will tell you I won't lend myself to the bloody-minded pursuit of a scapegoat. I will not feed a cycle of violence that will only kill, and kill again, until nobody is left to die."
"Some people don't need a cycle to—"
Hope hushed Kate with the slightest move of his hand. “I can handle this, ma'am.” He met Nancy's eyes. “Do you have more?"
"Plenty. I'm sure you don't want to hear it."
"Fine.” He stepped down the aisle, looming over her. “I don't want scapegoats, Doctor: I want the guilty parties, and I want it incontrovertible that they're guilty. I know my history. If we strike back at the perpetrators, and then the slightest doubt creeps in about what they did, it will paralyze this country. It will make us afraid to defend ourselves, probably long enough for us to be destroyed.
"I don't know what the President...” Briefly, he closed his eyes and murmured to himself. “...will do, though I'd have strong recommendations, if he'd listen. I do know it must be fast, decisive, and sure. For that, he should have certainties to go on, not probabilities.” He looked around. “You can give me certainties. I'll let you think that over."
He stopped at the threshold of the partition. “By the way, we're not turning around. And if you do try getting into the cockpit, we'll stop you."
"How?” Nancy said, her fires somewhat banked. “Shoot us?"
Hope gave an incongruously friendly smile. “Guns are a bad idea in a pressurized cabin. And we wouldn't need them.” He left.
Lucinda barely had a second before Kate and Nancy began making their appeals. “Don't ... start,” she told them, and they subsided. “I have a lot of thinking to do, in peace. If either of you tries talking me around again, I'll go the other way. Got it?” Two aggravated nods gave their answers.
She sank into the seat, her head hanging to one side, letting her look out the window. It was the first time she saw the fighters, two of them, flying in escort formation. She shut the blind and closed her eyes.
Was what Hope wanted even possible? Anyone knowingly involved in this heinous act had to be utterly convinced of the political idea that America deserved it. And reversing political convictions was a problem. They were too diffuse, not confined to exact areas of the brain. One could pinpoint them, but overlaying them with closely matched areas of another's brain to reverse their content would be very hard.
Lucinda worked to recall cerebral patterns they had studied in years past. Was there an underlying similarity to structures of political thought they had missed? Probably not. Pavel had worked hard to uncover one, and he would have trumpeted it if he had even gotten close. If he hadn't found one in months and years, how could she succeed in days, or hours, separated from all their equipment and data?
They could work by brute force, imposing wholesale changes on the subject brain, but that would threaten to wipe out the knowledge they hoped to extract. It would be disturbing enough if it worked, the subject's memories and identity scrambled or effaced. If it was all for naught ... could her conscience bear that?
Her eyes opened. Conscience.
It wasn't enough to have extreme views that theoretically justified mass murder. You needed a particular mindset permitting you to participate. Lucinda had seen plenty of examples over the years. She knew the pattern.
Analog SFF, April 2007 Page 3
