He looked at the arrangement and pattern of the letters and something caught his eye. It was t-y-y-f-q-r-q-b-s. Seemingly meaningless except that if the modulo held for the length of the word, then it was a letter followed by two of the same letters followed by a letter followed by the same letter that was following the next letter, then two other letters. It wasn’t a word but the “footprint” of a word, as he liked to think of it. Also, it was probably a word in Farsi that had to be translated to English. But it could also be any language translated into any language, or not a word at all but a number. He called his superior and asked for some Cray time.
The House Oversight Committee on Intelligence is a tough crowd, but they control the purse strings for all the spook houses of the U.S. Therefore, you have to play nice with them if you need something done, like grant unprecedented powers — a.k.a. license to kill — to two grunts in hot pursuit. So it was with cautious trepidation that Ray Reynolds sat beside Hiccock in a top secret, hastily called, closed door meeting of the committee. Being populated by politicians, the members spent a half hour peppering Ray with criticisms of administration policy. Hiccock remained patient and took his cues from Ray. The Chief of Staff knew how the game was played, and Bill wasn’t going to start worrying unless he saw sweat on Ray’s forehead. Hiccock was under strict orders not to speak unless specifically addressed. If he answered anything, it was not to be a syllable more than the bare minimum.
Things didn’t seem to be going well at all, what with the Congressmen lining up to take their punches at Ray and the rest of the administration. At last, the chairman called for a voice vote: there were seven yeas and nine nays. The committee then adjourned.
Hiccock was stunned. “That’s it?”
Ray swallowed but kept a poker face. “That’s it, Bill.”
“They can’t…”
“They just did. Let’s get back to the House.”
“Wait…”
“It’s over, Bill. Live to fight another day.”
Bill looked at the committee members collecting their stuff and preparing to leave, then at Ray. He then broke the first commandment of his office and spoke aloud.
“Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman.”
“Bill, don’t,” Ray snapped as he grabbed his arm.
“Mr. Chairman, right now there is a group of men, terrorists to be sure. They may be here in Washington, New York, or your home state of Iowa. They need no permission from any committee, they are bound by no U.S. law, and they have no constituents. But more importantly, they have no reservations about killing millions of Americans. You have just played into their hands. You have just hog-tied us, while amazingly not encumbering them in the least. We are not talking about probability here. It is a fact that they have a nuclear device and they will, they will, they will… detonate it on American soil. Maybe right in this very building. I implore you: do not let politics as usual or some political hard-on you may be carrying for the President be a death sentence for millions of Americans. To do that would be a gross disservice to those you have sworn to protect.”
Ray just put his head in his hands. The committee members all stopped in their tracks for a moment to listen to Bill. They then resumed their shuffling of papers and exiting, as if he said nothing.
“What are they doing? Didn’t they hear me?”
“Bill you are such a fucking amateur. All you did was waste their time. The committee is adjourned, meaning they have ceased hearing anything as a body. You spoke to no one.”
“No one, huh?” Bill raised his voice again. “Listen, you bastards! You are weak, spineless, and impotent. You are hiding behind procedure. Well, I’m not. Any one of you thinks you are man enough to face me, I’ll be right outside, you bunch of hypocritical, ideological wimps. Outside!”
“Will the sergeant of arms remove Mr. Hiccock from the room,” was all the chairman said as he leaned into the microphone clutching his folio close to his chest. Two security guards winged Hiccock.
“Okay boys, let’s get me out of here,” he said to them.
Ray Reynolds was beet red and out the door. In the hall, Hiccock turned to the guards. “Thanks, fellas. Sorry I got upset back there.”
As Bill smoothed his ruffled jacket, Congressman Jacob Edelstein, from the committee, approached Bill.
“You got a big mouth, Mr. Hiccock.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Bill said getting in his face.
“Try to help.”
The response stole all of Bill’s bluster. “Oh. Well. Okay then, let’s hear it.”
“War Powers Act.”
“I’m listening.”
“Section 214 and 104 are contradictory and could open a crack that allows the President to suspend various legalities. As long as he notifies Congress within two weeks.”
“Wait, are you saying?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Hiccock. Not all of us are wimps by the way.” And he was off.
“You want me to invoke War Powers?”
“Yes, Mr. President. It’s the only way to protect Bridgestone and Ross on domestic soil.”
“For only two weeks. Then you rescind the finding and it never leaves this room,” Reynolds explained sliding the finding under the President’s hands for signature. “The Congressman’s idea is a little like a two-cushion shot, but our counsel says there’s enough teeth in it or enough ambiguity in the language to fight off any Congressional inquiry.”
“Unless they kill a few people and get caught,” Mitchell said.
“Forget kill; all they have to do is muss a Muslim’s hair in front of a New York Times reporter,” Ray added.
“Why not bring in FBI and Justice if you are so sure about your intel, Bill?”
“Sir, I am afraid that then we will be talking ‘cats out of the bag’ in a big way and we’d be mucking up B amp;R’s speed with procedure. But of course, any actionable intelligence will certainly be shared, sir.”
“You realize I am giving these two men more power than any citizen or police force ever had on American soil?”
“Sir, these terrorists could achieve what the entire U.S.S.R. couldn’t in 50 years of the Cold War. We need to even the playing field, get some advantage over the terrorists. Or at least not be caught dead playing by the rules against guys who aren’t.”
“Lousy argument, Bill. No bad guys play by the rules, yet we never did anything like this before.”
“So why did you just sign it?”
“Because in this case the rules may take us into sudden death overtime. Just tell me you trust these two with the keys to the kingdom, Bill.”
“These are my guys, Mr. President.”
“Good enough for me, Bill.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sleeping With The Bomb
Janice was sure that somewhere in hell, a man was slow roasting on a turning spit for creating “fashion.” It had to be a man because no woman would wish this on her own kind. From the grotesque malformations of their pedal extremities — forcing those appendages into size 8 pointy-toed pumps — to the spectrum of carcinogens absorbed into the brain through the scalp for the sake of keeping up with this year’s “in” hair color. So it was, that for Janice, what most women would welcome as a day of beauty, was to her a day of torture and discomfort, although she passed on the dye job because she was pregnant. The necessary small talk and opinions that historically accompanied a gathering of females in these settings was markedly different in tone due to recent events. “Circular Error Probable,” a term once only uttered by nuclear scientists, was now bandied about by beauticians and manicurists replacing themes like shopping, families, extensions, dermabrasion, mud wrap, facials, and Botox.
Most amazing was the nuclear gossip. “Did you know a little radiation could clear your complexion?” “If it’s a plutonium-based bomb then the residual radiation is more conducive to multiple orgasms?”
Janice shuddered at the way people were making peace with the seemingly inevitable detonation
of the suitcase bomb. Every niche market theologian or practitioner of the New Age had creatively woven the nuclear calamity into their spiels, as if they always knew it and had spoke of it for years. And now the cathedrals of the inane, the very essence of talk for talk’s sake, the spa/salon dialogue, was newly polluted with bomb management phraseology.
Janice viewed this phenomenon from a level of global consciousness. Since there was only one bomb, the devastation would localize in one place. Wherever that locale was, once exploded, the rest of the globe had to have a way to categorize, sort, and finally set the event on some mental shelf. On that shelf would also go the remnants of the random terror generated prior to the detonation: namely, that it could have exploded, literally, in anyone’s backyard.
During her nail wrap, after her mud pack and facial, she overheard two women scaring one another to death. Most of what they spoke so confidently of was merely parroting the overblown rhetoric of various talk shows. One notion, however, sent a chill up Janice’s spine. The idea that, within a twenty-mile radius of a nuclear blast, serious genetic damage and miscarriages could result from the first millionth of a second’s worth of exposure to a radioactive wave front. Buildings and other manmade structures being porous to this initial surge or radiological pulse meant there was no place to hide. As Janice’s nails were drying, a plan formulated in her mind.
Everyone on her floor was surprised to see Janice on her day off. She went right into her office and called the COO of the hospital. Ten minutes later, she was being driven by her Secret Service agent, Brenda, to an address in Baltimore.
“Peter, after we finish, I want you to meet Kronos,” Bill said across the table in the Map Room as Joey sat beside him. “The two of you were separated at birth.”
“Billy, thank you for believing me. I thought you were one of those Trilateral Commission guys or one of their puppets.”
“Peter, I don’t know what you’re talking about but I don’t want to hear any conspiracy theories from this point forward. Only fact, pal. Now tell me what you think is going on.”
“It’s a conspiracy.”
“Damn it, Pete! I am not fooling around.”
“Okay, I’ll bite, Pete,” Joey said. “What’s the conspiracy?”
“Don’t encourage him!” Bill protested as he threw down his pencil.
“There is a key code that Ensiling created to detangle an algorithm that deals with the…you know, “
“You can say it in here, Pete.”
“The Jesus Factor. He found a warble, a non-linear blip in the cusp. A loophole in the natural law.”
“Good God, Pete, this is whacked. Now you’re telling me the biggest secret on Earth has an even bigger secret!”
“Bill, you know how science is. Every answer to every question just creates a new set of questions… until you hit the unified field theory. Then you go fishing.”
“So you’re telling me my dad already figured all this out.”
“How is Hank doing?”
“Better than your family. You realize, of course, you’re going to have to stay dead a little longer.”
“I hear that. And it’s better than being dead for real.”
“So where’s the key code?”
“No one knows. Ensiling never told me. But he obviously didn’t tell anyone else either before they killed him.”
Joey spoke up. “So why kill Kosmo?”
“Kasiko!”
“Whatever!”
“He was the last official member of the committee, Sergeant of Arms.”
“What about you?”
“I was an aide, an assistant.”
“A theorizer.”
“Right, I told you that.”
“So you think you’re next?” Joey asked.
“I was two attempts ago, but I eluded them. It was me they were aiming for in Vienna. I was walking next to Ensiling when that woman was shot.”
Joey perked up. “They were shooting at you?”
“I stopped when I caught a glimpse of the new 5g Black pad. Europe gets all the cool stuff first. She walked into my bullet.”
“Peter, you are just a magnet for all this cloak and dagger conspiracy shit, aren’t you?”
“Just spectacularly unlucky there, Billy the Kid.”
Bill pressed a button on his phone and then stood up. The others followed. “Cheryl will take you over to Kronos’ office in the OEOB. I’ll come by later.” He grabbed Peter with one arm and gave him a man-hug. “Glad you’re not a pizza, buddy.”
After Cheryl and Peter left, Bill turned to Joey. “What do you think?”
“I think even a stopped watch is right twice a day.
“Why can’t you just call the Veteran’s Administration?” the petite blonde, standing in line ahead of Janice, demanded out of frustration as the man behind the counter threw up his hands in response to government bureaucracy. She took a deep breath to quell her frustration and asked, “Is there a manager I can speak to?”
“I’ll go get him,” the salesclerk said as he went into the back.
The woman turned around to Janice standing behind her. “Do you believe this? My father lost his leg for this country and getting him a new seat for his wheelchair is a federal case.”
“It’s maddening, I know.”
The sales clerk returned, “The manager is just finishing up something and he will be out here in a minute. In the meantime, may I help you, Miss?”
“Yes, I need three X-ray aprons,” Janice said.
“Any specific make?”
“No, but good ones. In fact, the best!”
“Sure thing, Miss.” The clerk went off to fill the order.
“Are you a radiologist?” The blonde asked.
“Oh, no. They’re for me. I’m pregnant.”
“Congratulations. When are you due?”
“November.”
“Do you know?”
“No. We don’t want to know.”
The man returned with a flat rolling cart holding three cardboard boxes. “Here you go: three Radshield 1050 Protective Aprons. Will that be on account or cash?”
“I don’t have an account. Do you take credit cards?”
“Visa or MasterCard?”
Janice fished her credit card from her wallet.
The blonde noticed her White House ID and name. As the clerk ran Janice’s card she asked, “So what are you going to do with these?”
“I’m going to sleep in one, drive my car in one, and have one at my office.”
“Why?”
“If the bomb goes off within 20 miles of me, I want to protect my baby from the lethal dose of radiation that will spread in the blink of an eye.”
“Wow. I never even thought of that.”
“Me either, but nowadays….”
Just then, the manager came out and introduced himself to the blonde who immediatley started in again about her father’s wheelchair.
Janice signed her credit card slip, handed it back to the clerk, and asked, “Can someone help me to my car with these?”
“Sure thing, Miss.”
Special Air Missions, or SAM, is the President’s airline. Whenever anyone important to the government has to get from point A to B in record time, SAM is called. Run by the Air Force, its fleet ranges from Air Force One (actually any plane the President is on, but most notably one of two Blue and White 747s that becomes the very image of American prestige and power on every Presidential trip), down to little Gulfstream jets with the stars and stripes on the rear of the fuselage. One of those little “skeeters” was parked on the runway, engines idling, awaiting Hiccock when his car pulled up to the ramp at Andrews A.F.B. He walked from the car up the four steps and into the super posh cabin. An Air Force sergeant advised him to fasten his belt; they would be wheels up in 45 seconds. Before the belt went click, the door had been sealed, the chocks removed, and the military version of a corporate jet was rolling down the taxiway, priority number one for takeoff. The pilot,
Air Force Major Henry Stemmis, accelerated through the turn onto the runway and in less than half the distance of a regular airliner. The small jet was eating sky in an almost vertical trajectory.
Stemmis greeted his one and only passenger over the P.A. system. “Welcome aboard SAM 611, Professor Hiccock. Direct service to New York’s La Guardia Airport. Our flight time this evening will be 38 minutes. We have landing priority with New York ATC and should be on the ramp three minutes after wheels down. Once we hit our cruise altitude of 41,000 feet, I’ll shut off the seat belt sign and the sergeant will be happy to serve you. I’ll come back on when we start our approach. Thank you for flying Special Air Missions even though, we realize, you didn’t have a choice.”
The g-force Bill experienced was considerable. Maybe he shouldn’t have insisted on a fast trip. Maybe he should have said, “Just get me there sometime in the next few hours.” However, time was critical. Bridgestone and Ross were in New York tracking down the next lead on the trail of the nukes. Bill carried with him some operational orders and background material in a briefcase on flammable paper. Any attempt to fool with the case would cause the insides to combust into ash. Once read and memorized, B amp;R would flash-burn them to keep Operation Stork as tight as tight could be.
Joey, or someone else from Hiccock’s newly formed QuOG, could have made this delivery, but Bill wanted to look into their eyes and know who they were. He had gone out on the biggest political, judicial, and law enforcement limb you could find to give them carte blanche on American soil..
At mid-flight, the Major came back into the cabin. “Professor Hiccock?”
“Yes, Major.”
“Excuse me, but I am not very good at this…. My son, he plays varsity for Roanoke High. QB. He’s got some scouts looking at him right now. Anyway, I know that if I didn’t get an autograph from you, he’d stop easing off on his old man when we shoot hoops in the driveway.”
The Hammer of God Page 23
