The Eighth Trumpet (The Jared Kimberlain Novels)

by Jon Land

  “I do,” said Lisa.

  “TLP is on the best of terms with the Macy’s toy department,” she explained. “And we’ve got strong connections to the parade coordinators.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ve sponsored a float every year in the last four. Every year except this one, that is.”

  “Something changed?”

  “Yes,” Lisa replied with a smile that came quite easily. “Someone destroyed the life-size models of our Powerized Officers of War that were going to make up this year’s display.”

  While Lisa went to the seventeenth floor of Macy’s main store across from Penn Station in Manhattan, Kimberlain drove to the Hudson Valley and the white, Queen Anne-style mansion on the river’s east bank belonging to Senator Thomas Brooks. He called ahead, and the senator, home for the holiday, agreed to see him immediately. Brooks was there to greet him as soon as he rang the bell.

  “It’s been a long time, Mr. Kimberlain.”

  “Not really, Senator. A year and a half, maybe two.”

  “A long time in politics, son. Forgive me.”

  “It’s you who must forgive me. This isn’t a social call. I need a favor. I know I said there would be no compensation for what I did for you, but—”

  Senator Brooks cut him off. “Please, Mr. Kimberlain, you have no need to apologize. If it’s in my power, I’ll do it.” His voice grew reflective. “God knows I owe you. You saved my sanity. They took my grandson because of me, and I felt useless until you brought me back to life with that … payback. Just name it. Anything I can do to help you.”

  “Not just me, Senator.”

  They moved into the study. Senator Brooks had a fire going, and the Ferryman wished he could have enjoyed the splendid autumn panorama through the freshly restored bay windows.

  “How familiar are you, Senator, with oil exploration in Antarctica?”

  Brooks thought briefly. “Proposals for drilling have come up before my energy committee several times. It always turns into a battle of lobbies between the environmentalists and the oil industry.”

  “Just screens.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Senator, have you ever heard of an installation called Outpost 10?”

  “No, I’m quite certain I haven’t. Why?”

  “Because it’s the central part of an operation called Spiderweb. Oil drilling in Antarctica has been going on for some years already. That’s what I meant by screens. The oil industry’s just going through the motions because they’ve already got what they want, and when the time’s right they’ll make the announcement to the country. There aren’t many who know about it, though, since the whole project comes under the auspices of the Defense Department.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “But quite real. Hundreds of live wells linked together by pipelines stretching thousands of miles, and all joining up at the master control station called Outpost 10.”

  Senator Brooks no longer looked relaxed. The warmth of the fire could not stop his face from paling. “If what you say is true, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “It is true, Senator, and hell’s an accurate way to describe the upshot, but not for the reasons you might think. Are you up to interrupting the President’s holiday retreat?”

  “With sufficient reason, absolutely.”

  “Then make yourself comfortable, sir. This story may take a while to tell.”

  Senator Brooks was still trembling when Kimberlain left him, secure in the notion that he would contact the President after checking the story himself as best he could. It was already Tuesday afternoon, and because of the Antarctic Treaty the Ferryman knew the U.S. maintained no active military presence on the continent. That meant troops and equipment would have to be airlifted, which would take time under the best of circumstances.

  That much, then, was out of his hands.

  Lisa Eiseman had left a message for him with Peet at the midtown hotel they had checked into. She wanted him to meet her at Macy’s as soon as possible. He arrived there at four o’clock and rode the mezzanine elevator up to the Special Events offices located on the seventeenth floor. The corridor was narrow, and he made out Lisa sitting patiently in a chair outside an office at the very end.

  She saw him and strode over. “He canceled a host of meetings to see you, Jared,” she told him. “They’re taking this seriously.”

  “How much did you tell them?”

  “Just the basics. That we had discovered there was a possible threat to the safety of the parade, and that you would provide the specifics.”

  “Well done.”

  A balding, portly man noticed Kimberlain’s appearance and emerged from inside the office. He extended his hand to Kimberlain rather cautiously. “Bill Burns, director of special projects.”

  “Jared Kimberlain, longtime customer.”

  The Ferryman had tried for humor with the remark, but gained barely a polite smile from Burns. “We can talk in my office.”

  Lisa followed them inside, and Burns closed the door when she was seated next to Kimberlain.

  “I’m curious, Mr. Kimberlain,” Burns started, “to learn exactly who you are. Miss Eiseman was rather vague in that regard.”

  “I’m a lot of things, Mr. Burns, but mostly I provide a service: I help people. You won’t see my services listed in the Yellow Pages, but enough seem to find me when they’re in trouble.”

  “And that’s what we are, in trouble?”

  “More than you realize.”

  “But I don’t remember seeking you out.”

  “It was different this time. There was another matter I was called in on. That led me to you, to Macy’s.”

  “And the parade.”

  “And the parade.”

  Burns hesitated. “Have you gone to the police about this?”

  “I was hoping that wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “How wouldn’t it be necessary, Mr. Kimberlain? Under the circumstances, I mean.”

  “I was hoping you would be willing to cancel the parade.”

  Burns started to laugh and then stopped. “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Are we talking about terrorism here?”

  “A form of it, I suppose, yes.”

  “But we haven’t received any threats, any demands.”

  “As I said, only a form. Three years ago an explosion ended your parade prematurely, Mr. Burns, just as it prematurely ended the life of one powerful man. But it didn’t kill him. Instead it gave birth to a whole new human being. And now there’s a new disaster about to happen—the one Miss Eiseman has explained to you—and this man has chosen your parade to begin it. The ultimate symmetry, Mr. Burns. A mad brand of logic.”

  “And just who is this man?”

  “Jason Benbasset.”

  “My God. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I wish I could say I wasn’t.”

  The phone on Burns’s desk buzzed. He excused himself and picked it up, listened, and then spoke briefly. He turned back to Lisa and Kimberlain.

  “When Miss Eiseman advised me of the potential severity of the situation and of your … interest, I took the liberty of having our security department run a check on you.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “It’s what I would have done in your position. But, you see, my file’s sealed. Your security department wouldn’t have found anything unless I unsealed it.”

  As if on cue, a knock came on Burns’s door and a younger man in shirtsleeves entered the office and put a manila folder into the portly man’s hand. Burns started reading, eyes widening and occasionally coming up to meet Kimberlain’s as he thumbed through the single-spaced pages. When finished, he did nothing for a time other than gaze across the desk at the Ferryman.

  “It would seem you underestimate yourself, Mr. Kimberlain,” he said finally.

  “Modesty’s always been one of my virtues.”

  “Y
ou have my apologies and my attention. Please, what exactly are we facing here?”

  “Five hundred pounds of the most potent plastic explosives known to man that if properly placed could take out a large chunk of the city.”

  “Lord.”

  “I wasn’t finished yet. This plastic explosive can be melted into a liquid, heated into an explosive gas, formed into virtually any shape—the possibilities are endless.”

  “And the perpetrators plan to use it during the parade?”

  “Not just during your parade, Mr. Burns, on it. No one will be safe. Not the people watching or the ones participating. You understand my point about cancellation now.”

  “Yes, but it’s impossible for us to cancel at so late a time. I haven’t got the authority, and I’m not sure any other individual does either. The number of people involved in this event is tremendous. And there’s television coverage to consider as well. If we cancel without showing just cause, meaning absolute proof, we could be sued.”

  “Five hundred pounds of C-12 plastique should be plenty of ‘just cause’ for you.”

  “Unfortunately, on your word alone, it can’t. Please understand me, Mr. Kimberlain. I sympathize with everything you’ve said, and I don’t doubt your word. But it remains your word—one man’s word. If we were to call the parade off based on that, then we would be submitting ourselves to a different form of terrorism, wouldn’t we? And in another perspective the terrorists would have won.”

  “These aren’t terrorists!” Kimberlain caught his voice rising in time to lower it. “They’re not out to score points for their hopeless Third World revolution. They’re here to punish society, starting with your parade. I don’t know how closely you read my file, but you might have gotten the idea I know a lot about vengeance, getting even, what I like to call paybacks. This whole incident is Jason Benbasset’s version of a payback.”

  Burns shook his head, confused and anxious. “I’m a PR man, Mr. Kimberlain, not a decision-maker. But I know how they function, and I can promise you that the parade will not be canceled on such short notice without absolute proof.”

  “If I knew where the C-12 was, this conversation would never have had to take place.”

  Burns’s tone turned conciliatory. “Please, we’re both after the same thing here. Neither of us wants a disaster while the country is getting ready to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, but we must face the fact that the parade is going to go on. With that in mind, what’s our next best option?”

  “Security. Lots of it.”

  “That much I can arrange. I’ll talk to the New York police myself; the FBI, too. I’ll put every one of our security people on duty and arrange twenty-four-hour guards on all sites where parade equipment is being assembled or stored.”

  “Where’s your chief of security?”

  “In Philadelphia until late this evening. I can set up a meeting for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll want to know everything there is to know about your parade, Mr. Burns. The route, the props, the floats, those famous balloons, the works.”

  Burns jotted it all down. “Anything else?”

  “Sure,” said Kimberlain. “Pray for a blizzard.”

  “There’ll be over twenty-five hundred Macy’s employees walking the route, Mr. Kimberlain. No one will be praying any harder than I.”

  The Eighth Trumpet

  Outpost 10

  Wednesday, November 25; 7:00 A.M.

  Chapter 31

  FOR DANIELLE THE LAST forty-eight hours had been a living hell. She had slipped reluctantly from Kimberlain’s embrace Monday afternoon sadly aware that it was unlikely they would ever see each other again. He was the only person she would ever meet who knew her for what she was and thought no less of her as a result. Her life had been so filled with secrecy and deception that her very name had been forgotten, and reaching for the truth was a difficult task. The Ferryman accepted her because he too had lived such a life, and now he was gone. By her own choosing. By necessity.

  So she could find the only truth left that mattered at Outpost 10.

  She had fled Malta with the Hashi close on her heels and had begun a long journey laced with frustration and a feeling of utter helplessness. Her route took her to Sydney, Australia, by way of Paris and then on to Christchurch, New Zealand, through which most planes in and out of Antarctica were channeled. Her cover for at least reaching the continent, specifically the American research station at McMurdo, was in place. From there she had no idea of how she would make her way the additional eight hundred miles to Outpost 10—over the Transantarctic Mountains to boot. And even if she did manage to reach it, she held little hope the weaponry would be available to thwart the takeover attempt by a well-trained force of Hashi commandos from the captive submarine. All she could do was reach McMurdo and take things from there.

  And here lay the basis for her initial frustrations: all traffic in and out of McMurdo from Christchurch was being restricted due to airfield problems. Her arrival in New Zealand Tuesday night was met with the news that the C-130 cargo plane scheduled to take her across would not be leaving until six-thirty A.M., which left her an additional seven hours to wallow in her anxiety. Two journalists were scheduled to make the trip along with a half-dozen researchers who’d been away on leave and were now returning.

  The weather in Christchurch was chilly, and she knew Antarctica itself would be much worse. Even though November was the beginning of summer on the continent and the sun never set, killer storms could whip up quickly and last for days. The temperature was tolerable but still frigid to one not used to the climate.

  It was sunny and bright in Christchurch Wednesday morning, and after breakfast the small group of passengers was escorted from the barracks straight onto the airfield. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the C-130, a panting German Shepherd sniffed each passenger before he or she was allowed to make his way up. At the rear of the party, Denielle felt the grasp of fear, thinking of the pistol concealed in the thick padding of her down parka. As she drew closer, though, she saw the dog was concerned solely with sniffing for drugs. She petted him when he was finished and smiled at his disapproving handler.

  McMurdo was 2,200 miles away. At top speed, the C-130 would make it there by mid-afternoon. Danielle finally managed to steal some sleep during the flight, content at least with the fact that the last leg of her journey and of her mission was upon her. The Ferryman’s assurances in Malta had meant nothing. Brother Valette had said all along it would be left to the Knights to stop the Hashi’s ultimate try for chaos in the end, meaning it was left to her. There would be no help coming from Kimberlain in the States. She felt sure of that.

  She awoke just as the C-130 was going into its descent. The aircraft was equipped with ski bottoms to maintain control during the landing. The airfields of McMurdo were paved, but workers were helpless to fight off the onslaught of the blowing winds, which sent snow squalling over the tarmac to freeze quickly into ice. Accordingly, the runways were built on a slight upward grade, so the C-130’s brakes would bring it to a gradual stop.

  Danielle tried to look out the window, but the brightness blinded her, a great white blur for as far as she could see. Her eyes ached. She longed for sunglasses as she watched the other passengers donning theirs. Nothing but white—rolling, sloping, hilly white. The C-130 grazed the runway with its skis. It was like flying while on the ground, and it seemed as though it would never stop. But the plane did stop, and rather precisely at that, not more than forty yards beyond a green mini-bus that would take them the five-mile stretch from the airfield to McMurdo Station.

  Outside, the Antarctic cold was like none she had experienced before. It pierced the thickness of her jacket and clasped her flesh in its icy grip. It was raw, wet, and made breathing difficult. Her exhaled breath turned white, and she longed for her exposed face to grow numb to spare her the feeling of needles prickling with each gust of the wind.

  The air inside the mini
-bus was warmer but hardly comfortable. She could hear the heaters struggling against the dwindling temperatures and losing the fight. The door had been opened long enough for the passengers and their gear to be packed in—and also long enough for all the hot air to rush out so the heater had to start anew.

  “All buckled in?” the driver called back to his seated passengers. And without waiting for an answer, he tucked his goggles over his eyes and the van set off.

  Danielle knew enough about the Antarctic climate to fear such cold temperatures, for in the summer season they could only mean a treacherous storm was about to descend on the area. If that happened before she found her way to Outpost 10, she might well end up stuck at McMurdo while the hijacked submarine brought its deadly crew and cargo to a comfortable distance from the base. She fought the thoughts back; there was no sense in considering them.

  The road the mini-bus took was formed of chunks of ice so worn that it had lost much of its slipperiness. Lines of red and green flags wedged into the ground on bamboo stakes rimmed the road on both sides in order to help drivers keep their vehicles on the path in far worse conditions. The road was winding, and the van did not take the curves especially well. The most it had going for it was the fact that it had the route all to itself, and at last it swung around a large high mound known as Observation Hill, beneath which lay McMurdo Station.

  Danielle saw the development at first glance for just what it was: a speck of civilization where it plainly didn’t belong. McMurdo had grown from a simple American research outpost into a small town, much of it built on a slope in a cluttered composite of streets and buildings that battled for her eye with enormous storage tanks. There were dormitories, workshops, a huge mess hall, a chapel, laboratories, garages, an administration building, a bar—all linked together by dirt roads that were either frozen or hopelessly muddy. Sewer and water pipes ran above-ground from building to building, encased in corrugated tin.