by Jack Bowie
“If you would like I can go back through the archives and see if we have any other details on the teams.” Cavendish rose, but continued his discourse on the way to the stacks. “Let’s see. I think the newspaper reports would be in section B73 . . .”
“No thank you, Professor. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you need to do that. You have been very helpful, however. Thank you.” Braxton buried his head into the doings of the Yale Glee Club.
“Oh. Well, yes. I see.” The professor shuffled back to his desk at the front of the room. “It was quite a good game, Adam. Despite the result, of course.”
Cavendish was almost past. They were nearly free.
“And that horrid prank. It got most of the publicity.”
Braxton’s head popped up. “Prank? What prank?”
“Some unruly MIT students tried to disrupt the game. Jealousy, I imagine. It was disgusting.”
“What did they do?”
“A big balloon appeared in the middle of the field around halftime and . . .”
“Halftime?” Braxton exclaimed.
“It got bigger and bigger then just burst. The foolish affair was over in a few seconds but it was in all the headlines the next day. Can you imagine? It made a mockery of the day.”
The consultant got up and put his arm around Cavendish. “Yes. I’m sure it was awful. But perhaps we should have a look at those archives after all.”
* * *
Braxton and Luckett spent the next forty five minutes in the microfilm room, searching the newspaper archives for any articles on the ill-fated football game. The professor had been right on one account: while the game itself had received brief coverage in the sports pages—Yale had lost 45 to 7—the MIT prank had made the front page. From the New Haven Register, to associated articles in the Boston Globe and Herald American, the technology students’ escapade caught the attention of both communities.
Desiring to take some of the polish off their snobbish neighbors in Cambridge, four fraternity brothers from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology planned a surprise during the Harvard-Yale football game. At a break in play during the second quarter, the stadium attendees observed a black balloon appearing out of the turf near the middle of the field. As it grew bigger, the letters “MIT” painted on the sides became clearly visible. Eventually, after growing to over six feet in diameter, the balloon finally burst, leaving nothing behind but torn shreds of rubber and white talc.
Beyond the sensational headlines, the newspapers continued the story, giving a surprising amount of detail. From what Braxton was able to piece together, the escapade was called a “hack,” which was then defined as an elaborate, often technological, prank. Hacks were executed according to a strict code of ethics requiring them to be good-natured, non-destructive, and safe, yet often needing significant planning and engineering finesse.
Could this “hack” be the reference on Gary’s note? What could a college student prank have to do with a militia rebellion?
Braxton had asked Cavendish if he knew of any other descriptions of the event and the professor had gone back upstairs. He reappeared ten minutes later holding a worn, oversized paper-back book. The title was The Journal of the Institute for Hacks, Tom Foolery and Pranks at MIT by the MIT Press. As Braxton thumbed through the pages, he saw that the volume was a testament to the ingenuity of youthful engineering students. It actually brought back memories of his own student days at B.C., although his efforts seemed amateurish compared to changing a hotel marquee to your fraternity’s name, reconstructing a campus patrol car on the top of a huge domed building, and creating a stained-glass cathedral in the university’s main lobby.
The book had a whole chapter devoted to the Harvard-Yale ’82 hack, including additional articles reprinted from the Globe that showed the actual construction drawings of the inflation device. It was a six-inch by three-foot cylinder into which was packed the balloon, a Freon canister driving a hydraulic ram, an electric inflation pump, and necessary control valves. Electric power was supplied by one hundred feet of cable that the students had buried under the sod of the field during multiple midnight “raids.” The cable had finally been brought to an unused electric circuit in a stadium tool shed. At the chosen moment, it was plugged in by one of the students and the hack initiated.
Braxton couldn’t help but think how today students could miniaturize the plan. Tiny pumps run on batteries. Wireless activation. It would still be a fantastic feat.
He stared at the drawing again and realized why it seemed familiar. It looked almost like a sprinkler head. Something that would be used in an irrigation system.
An irrigation system! The signing at the White House. My God!
He grabbed for his cell. There was no signal.
“Where are you going, Adam?” Luckett asked as the consultant raced for the stairway. “I have some other references here.”
“I’ve got to get outside,” Braxton yelled back. “I know what’s going to happen!”
Chapter 55
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, 12:10 p.m.
“We’re ten minutes late already Chad. Were the hell is the DNI?”
The President paced back and forth in front of his desk like a mechanical toy as his Chief of Staff rushed into the Oval Office from the reception area. Matthews hated being late for anything. The only thing he hated more was incompetence on the part of his staff.
“Millie just got a call from him, sir,” Dawson began. “He’s stuck on I-395. Some kind of accident. He said to go ahead without them.”
“Well, wasn’t that thoughtful of him. Damn right we’ll go ahead without him. Is the Speaker here?”
“Yes, sir. He, the V.P. and SecState are in the hall. Everyone else is outside already.”
“Then let’s do it, Mr. Dawson. It’s time to put another glow on the campaign.”
* * *
“Slattery.”
Slattery had answered his private line with his usual warm greeting. Braxton knew he had to stay calm. He had to make the spook understand.
“It’s Adam. Adam Braxton. It’s happening. Now!” He caught his breath. Calm down. Speak slowly. Blood pounded in his ears.
“Adam? What are you talking about? What’s happening?”
“The militia. The Chlamydia.” He couldn’t make sentences. Words just popped from his mouth. “Sprinklers in the White House irrigation system. Today. At the signing.”
“What are you saying? Are you sure?”
“Yes, goddamn it.” He was screaming into the phone. “It happened at the Harvard-Yale game in ‘82. You’ve got to stop them!”
The line went dead.
* * *
President Matthews stood regally behind his podium as the Prime Minister of Great Britain warbled on about the historic value of the agreement. He would probably invoke the names of Chamberlain and Churchill. It would make for great sound bites.
The Washington weather had cooperated fully: bright yellow sun, clear blue sky, hardly any breeze. A bit humid for some of the other heads of state—Chancellor Kellogg from Germany was constantly squirming in his seat—but Matthews loved it. One of his greatest gifts was the ability to look comfortable under any circumstances, from the frozen steppes of China to the sweltering heat of the Brazilian rain forest. He had conquered them all, including the blistering intensity of the White House Press Briefing Room.
He looked out across the Rose Garden, now filled with the elite of world leaders. It was such an idyllic location. The garden had been trimmed and pruned, washed and watered. Every leaf and bud in its place. He did miss the sweet smell of the lilacs, they wouldn’t bloom again until May, but there was a new scent in the air. He couldn’t quite place it.
I’ll have to check with Millie later. She would surely know.
This would be a landmark day. He could feel it. The agreement would be another ribbon on his chest. Another point the opposition could not refute come November. Yes, they
would all remember this day.
Why are all those beepers going off?
* * *
The Commander sat on the edge of the hotel room couch, his eyes fixed on the flat panel TV. Since early that morning he had watched the mind-numbing news reports, the endless procession of dignitaries and the banal speeches leading to the signing.
At each phase his pulse had ratcheted higher. When all the murdering lackeys had been present, he had sent the signal. His heart pounded until he had felt it would surely explode.
Everything had been so perfect: the stolen culture, the militia diversion, the custom atomizer, and the preparation for the event.
What had happened?
Suddenly the participants had jumped up and run from the Rose Garden. They ran like the cowards they were. Away from their destiny.
He threw the half-empty coffee pot by his side at the television screen.
How could his plan have been discovered? It had to be that damn consultant. Well, soon he would be history along with the rest of them.
PART THREE
The Commander
Chapter 56
Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia
Wednesday, 11:15 p.m.
Braxton stepped out of the elevator at Tysons Tower, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, and trudged down the hall toward his office. It was much too late to be trying to get any work done, but he did have another meeting with Takagawa in the morning. He’d never get up in time to prepare before it, so it was now or never. Maybe he could grab a few minutes of sleep on the office sofa.
After the call to Slattery, he and Luckett had gathered all the information on the Harvard-Yale hack, said their thank-you’s to Cavendish, and took a cab back to Tweed New Haven Airport. They discovered the next available flight wasn’t until 7:30 that evening, so they spent the remaining hours in the Runway Bar nursing a few beers and watching for any news on the signing. At 6:00 Airport CNN had finally announced that the event had been marred by a bomb scare. Everyone had been evacuated, the talking head had reported, but there had been no bomb and no one had been injured. Undeterred by this good news, the anchor had gone back to descriptions of the latest Midwest flooding.
“Well, I guess someone got the message,” Braxton had commented. But was their discovery in time?
The flight to National had been another vertigo-inducing turbo prop and neither Braxton nor Luckett had the stomach to carry on a conversation. They spent the flight in silence, each pondering how he would find out what had really happened at the White House. A curt goodbye was all they could muster at National. It was then that he had decided he needed to return to his office.
Braxton fumbled with his ring of keys and finally found the one to his outer office door. Turning the tumbler, he thought he heard a noise. He looked up and down the hall, but saw nothing.
Why did he ever let himself get involved in all this? What he needed most right now was some rest.
He opened the door and groped for the light switch. Chu had left her space as neat as ever. He had to give her a raise this year. She had been doing twice the work of any other assistant he had ever had, and still managed to keep the office presentable.
As he opened the door to his inner office, he saw a flash of light to his right. What was going on?
Braxton pushed back his door and the light from the reception area flooded into his office.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed upon seeing the chaos. Drawers were pulled open and papers thrown all over his desk and the floor. Someone had been ransacking his files!
He jumped at another sound. Someone was still here! The noise came from the direction of the connecting conference room. The door was ajar; this was the source of the flash of light. He ran into the room in time to see a form rush out the now open door to the hallway. Without thinking, he took off after the shape.
The flapping of soft-soled shoes echoed through the empty hallway. Braxton’s office was at one corner of the huge rectangular building. The elevator and stairway complex sat in the center. The intruder had turned right, probably the way he had initially approached the office; but it was the long way back to his exit. Braxton turned left, then made a quick right down the longer hallway toward the stairs. He would now be nearly even with the trespasser.
Braxton pushed his exhausted body as far as it would go. Faster! He had to find out who this was!
His brain commanded his legs to turn the corner into the elevator cross-aisle, but, in what he would later recognize as a life-saving twist of fate, they wouldn’t respond. They were out of control, pumping up and down like the pistons of a runaway steam engine. He overran the near corner, but did manage to lean his body enough to direct his substantial momentum into the wall at the opposite side.
He struck the surface at full speed: first his legs, then his chest, then his head smashed into the unforgiving cold tile. Braxton slid to the floor, unable to move. When he looked up, he was staring up at a slim, black-clad figure holding the biggest silver automatic pistol he had ever seen. The man’s face was covered with a ski mask, but his eyes! They were black holes in circles of pure white. His mind screamed for escape but he couldn’t draw away from those eyes.
The man slowly raised the automatic and Braxton knew his end had come. All he could think of was Megan. Soon he would be with her again.
In the distance Braxton heard a bell ring. The man with the hollow eyes paused, lowered his gun and walked toward the consultant. Never releasing Braxton from the hold of his hollow eyes, he leaned over and put something in the consultant’s shirt pocket.
“Tell your friend I’m back,” he whispered through the mask.
He gave Braxton a final wink, and disappeared through the stairway door.
Freed of the mysterious force, Braxton slipped into unconsciousness.
* * *
Slattery squinted through bleary eyes at the flashing red and blue lights ringing the entrance to the Tysons office building. He shook off the hypnotizing effect of the blinkers and searched for his FBI colleague.
As if the excitement at the White House hadn’t been enough, Flynn had woken him out of a very sound sleep, barked out a confusing sequence of events, and asked—or was it told—him to meet her. He had apologized to Beth, thrown on what clothes he could find in the dark, and drove off into the night.
Slattery turned onto Tysons One Place and saw a familiar dark Ford sedan. He pulled up behind. Flynn, dressed in a dark-green workout suit and matching FBI cap, met him on the curb.
“Looks like you’ve got quite a party going, Mary Ellen. What happened?”
“Somebody broke into Adam Braxton’s office,” Flynn replied. “They were rifling the place when he came back tonight.”
“Braxton?” Slattery asked. “I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, cut the shit, Roger. I’ve been talking to Peter. I know all about IMAGER, the Yangs, Braxton, and the Chlamydia attack on the White House. You guys are all nuts, you do know that don’t you? I told you to be careful. Did you realize IMAGER is an anagram of MIRAGE?”
He shook his head hopelessly. Shit. Robinson’s set us all up.
“I called because I wasn’t sure what happened to Braxton,” she continued.
“Is he okay?”
“As it turns out, yeah. Knocked himself out chasing the intruder. Lucky thing too, he just missed a bullet.”
“A bullet? Doesn’t sound like your typical break-in. Anything missing?”
“Nothing obvious. From what I heard of the scene, it’ll be tomorrow before anybody can make any sense out of the mess.”
“Any ID on the shooter?”
“Not yet. The Fairfax County detectives are still trying to get a coherent statement out of Braxton.”
Slattery looked across the street to the tower. The three Fairfax County police cars were still standing guard around the entrance. He spotted at least two other FBI cars lurking in the shadows. What wasn’t Flynn telling him?
“What
brings the FBI out on a simple B&E?”
“Just lucky,” Flynn replied. “One of my boys caught it on the radio. I recognized Braxton’s name. I didn’t know whether it was serious or not, so I called. Sorry to drag you out for nothing.”
“Not a problem. I haven’t had a good midnight op for years. Oh, how’s the injury?”
She flexed her left arm. “Much better, thanks.”
“Glad to hear it. You gonna hang around?”
“Maybe for a while. See if we can help out the locals.”
“I’ll leave it to you then. Goodnight.” He turned, headed back to his car, then stopped. “One thing more, Mary Ellen.”
“Yes, Roger?”
“Let’s keep this little meeting just between us. Braxton’s still on the Agency’s shit list and I don’t need the grief.”
Flynn nodded. “Understood,” she replied with a smile.
“But I would like to get a look at the police report when you get done.”
* * *
“Ouch!” Braxton yelled as a strange man dabbed an alcohol swab on a cut above his right eye. He was lying on the couch in his office watching some kind of paramedic tend to his wounds. Around him, a crowd of men was studying the results of the intruder’s search. Two were dressed in Fairfax County Police uniforms and two more wore plainclothes. One was wearing a dark jacket with “FBI” printed on the back.
Holding him forward was Karen Chu.
“Oh just lie still,” Chu ordered. “You’re acting like a baby. They’re trying to help you.” She eased his head back down as the EMT took away the painful swab and searched in a briefcase for a bandage.
“Thanks for all the compassion.” He pushed his head up from the sofa only to have Chu press him back down, none too softly.
“You are not getting up, Adam Braxton,” she ordered. “Just lie back and rest.”
“You’re sure you don’t want us to take you to the hospital, sir?” the EMT asked as he taped a bandage across Braxton’s forehead. “You really should get that bruise looked at.”
“I’m just fine, and I’m not going to any hospital. Thanks for your help though. I do appreciate it.”
