Blasphemy (33 page)

He began scouting the area, making notes of the topography and terrain, the roads, access points, fences, towers, other structures.

Above him, the high-tension lines hissed and spit. The stars winked. The earth turned. Russell Eddy moved through the dark, for the first time in his life supremely sure of himself.

LOCKWOOD WAS SURPRISED AT HOW SHABBY and bare-bones-functional the White House Situation Room was. It smelled like a basement rec room that needed airing out. The walls were painted ochre. A mahogany table dominated the center, with microphones strung down the middle. Flat-panel screens lined the walls. Chairs lined the two long walls, shoulder to shoulder.

The ugly, institutional clock at the end of the table read midnight, exactly.

The president strode in, looking crisp in his gray suit and mauve tie, white hair swept back. He turned to the Navy rating who evidently ran the electronics. “I want you to patch in the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, my National Security Advisor, DDHS, DFBI, and DCI.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Oh, and don’t forget the head of the Senate Intelligence Committee so he won’t bitch later about being out of the loop.”

He took a seat at the head of the table. Roger Morton, the chief of staff, patrician and cautious, took the seat to his right. Gordon Galdone, the campaign manager, as large and disheveled as an unmade bed, wearing a brown Wal-Mart suit, took the seat on the other side of the president. Jean occupied a chair against the wall in the corner, behind the president, primly perched with her steno pad at the ready.

“Let’s just go ahead—the others will join us when they join us.”

“Yes sir.”

Some of the flat panels were already lighting up with attendees. Jack Strand, the FBI director, was the first. He sat in his office over in Quantico, a giant FBI seal behind him, his square-jawed cop’s face touched with old acne scars staring relentlessly into the screen—a man to inspire confidence, or at least trying to.

The Secretary of DOE, a man named Hall, popped up next from his office on Independence Avenue, the man ostensibly in charge of Isabella. But he had never taken control—he was a genial delegator—and now he was a mess, his plump face covered with a sheen of sweat, his light blue tie knotted so tight it looked like he’d just tried to hang himself with it.

“All right,” said the President, clasping his hands on the table in front. “Secretary Hall, you’re the man in charge, what the hell’s going on out there?”

“I’m sorry,” Hall stammered, “Mr. President, I have no idea. This is unprecedented. I don’t know what to say—”

The president cut him off, turning to Lockwood. “Who was the last to be in contact with the Isabella team? Stan, do you know?”

“It was probably me. I spoke to my inside man at seven MDT, and he said everything was fine. He said a run was planned and that he’d go down and join them at eight. He gave no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.”

“Got any theories about what’s going on?”

Lockwood’s mind had been racing through the possibilities, none of which made sense. He controlled the panic welling inside, keeping his voice steady and calm. “I’m not sure I’ve got a clear handle on it.”

“Could we be dealing with some kind of internal mutiny? Sabotage?”

“It’s possible.”

The President turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sitting in his office in the Pentagon, wearing his rumpled field uniform. “General, you’re in charge of the rapid response units, where’s the closest one?”

“Nellis AFB, in Nevada.”

“National Guard Unit?”

“Flagstaff.”

“FBI? Where’s the closest field office?”

Jack Strand, the FBI Director, answered from his screen. “Also Flagstaff.”

The president thought, his brow furrowed, tapping his finger on the table. “General, have them send out the closest chopper to investigate.”

At this, Gordon Galdone, the campaign chief, shifted his bulk, sighed, and pressed a finger to his soft lips.

The oracle speaks
, thought Lockwood sourly.

“Mr. President?” The man had an orotund voice, not unlike Orson Welles in his obese years.

“Yes, Gordon?”

“May I point out that this is not just a scientific or even military problem? It’s a
political
problem. For weeks the press and others have been asking why Isabella isn’t online. The
Times
ran an editorial last week. Four days ago a scientist committed suicide. We’ve got a firestorm among the Christian fundamentalists. Now the scientists won’t answer their telephones. On top of that, we have a science adviser who is freelancing as a spy.”

“Gordon, I
approved
it,” said the president.

Galdone continued unperturbed. “Mr. President, we are heading into a public relations disaster. You supported the Isabella project. You’re identified with it. You’re going to take a big hit—unless we solve this problem right away. Sending out a chopper to investigate is too little, too late. It’ll take all night and things will still be a mess in the morning. God help us when the media gets hold of this.”

“So what do you propose, Gordon?”

“To
fix
the problem by tomorrow morning.”

“How?”

“Send in a teamequipped to take control of Isabella and shut it down—and escort the scientists off the premises.”

“Just a minute,” the president said. “The Isabella project is the best thing I’ve done. I’ll be damned if I’ll shut it down!”

“You shut it down or it will shut you down.”

Lockwood was shocked to hear an adviser address the president so rudely.

Morton spoke. “Mr. President, I agree with Gordon. We’re less than two months from the election. We don’t have the luxury of time. We’ve got to shut down the Isabella project tonight. We can sort it all out later.”

“We don’t even know what the hell’s going
on
out there,” the president said. “How do you know we’re not dealing with some kind of terrorist attack or hostage situation?”

“Perhaps we are,” said Morton.

A silence. The president turned to his National Security Advisor, on a flat panel. “You got a hint of something going down anywhere in national intelligence?”

“Nothing that we’re aware of, Mr. President.”

“All right, let’s send in a team. Armed and ready for any level of conflict. But no big mobilization, nothing that would alert the press or make us look stupid later. A small, elite, SWAT-type team, highly trained—to get in there, secure the damn place, shut it down, and escort the scientists out. The operation to be completed by dawn.” He sat back. “Okay: Who can do it?”

The Director of the FBI spoke. “The Rocky Mountain Hostage Rescue Team is based in Denver, less than four hundred miles from the Isabella project. Eleven highly capable men, all ex-Delta, specifically trained to operate on American soil.”

“Yes, but here at the CIA—,” began the DCI.

“Great.” The president cut him off and turned to Lockwood. “Stan? What do you think?”

Lockwood struggled to keep his voice calm. “Mr. President, in my opinion this talk of a commando raid is premature. I strongly agree with what you said earlier—we should find out what’s going on first. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Send a helicopter out there with some people to knock on the door, so to speak.”

Morton spoke in a crisp voice. “Tomorrow morning, every TV news station in the country will be out there. We’ll be operating under a media microscope. Our freedom of action will be gone. If for some reason the scientists have barricaded themselves in there, it could be Waco all over again.”

“Waco?” repeated Lockwood incredulously. “We’re talking about twelve eminent scientists here led by a Nobel laureate. These are not a bunch of crazy cultists!”

The chief of staff turned to the president. “Mr. President, I can’t emphasize strongly enough that this operation must be completed
without fail
by dawn. Everything will change when the media arrive. We don’t have time to send someone out there to ‘knock on doors.’ ” His voice rose with sarcasm.

“I absolutely concur,” said Galdone.

“No alternative?” asked the president quietly.

“None.”

Lockwood swallowed. He felt sick. He had lost the argument and now he would be forced to participate in the shutting down of Isabella. “The operation you propose may present some difficulties.”

“Explain.”

“You can’t just cut power to Isabella. It could cause an explosion. The power flows are tricky and can only be controlled from within, by the computer. If for some reason the scientific team inside isn’t . . .
cooperating
, you’ll need to have someone along who can shut down Isabella safely.”

“Who do you recommend?”

“That same man I mentioned earlier up at Los Alamos, Bernard Wolf.”

“We’ll send a chopper to fetch him. How about getting in?”

“The access door to the Bunker is hardened against external attack. All the forced air systems are highly secure. If the team won’t or can’t open the front doors, it may be difficult to reach them.”

“There’s no security override?”

“DHS felt an override might allow a point of entry for terrorists.”

“How do we get in, then?”

God, how he hated this. “The best way would be straight in through the front door, with explosives. It’s halfway down a sheer cliff. There’s a large staging area in front, but much of it’s recessed under the cliff and I’m sure you couldn’t land a military helicopter in there. You’ll have to land the team on top and rappel down, then breach the door. I’m describing a worst-case scenario. The scientists will probably just let the team in.”

“How’d they get heavy equipment in there if there’s no road?”

“They used the old coal-mine road, then dynamited it off the side of the mountainside when Isabella was complete. Again—security.”

“I see. Tell me more about this entry door.”

“It’s a titanium honeycomb composite.
Very
hard to cut. Explosives would be the way to go.”

“Get me the specs on it. And then?”

“Inside, there’s a big cavern. Straight ahead is the Isabella tunnel. To the left is the control room, which we call the Bridge. Its door is one-inch stainless steel, a final defense against entry. I’ll get you the blueprints.”

“That’s it for security?”

“That’s it.”

“Are they armed?”

“The SIO, Wardlaw, carries a sidearm. No other firearms are allowed.”

Morton turned to the president. “Mr. President, we need your order to go ahead with this operation.”

Lockwood watched as the president hesitated, glanced at him, then looked over to the FBI Director. “Send in the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Get the scientists out of the mountain and shut Isabella down.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The chief of staff slapped his briefing file shut with a smack, the sound like a slap to Lockwood’s face.

A WHINING SINGSONG KEENED THROUGH THE BUNKER. The screen flickered. Ford stood rooted before the Visualizer, Kate beside him. Somehow, he didn’t remember when her hand had found his.

In response to Hazelius’s question, more words appeared on the screen.

The great monotheistic religions were a necessary stage in the development of human culture. Your task is to guide the human race to the next belief system
.

“Which is?”

Science.

That’s ridiculous—science can’t be a religion!“ said Hazelius.

You have already started a new religion—only you refuse to see it. Religion was once a way to make sense of the world. Science has now taken over this role.

“Science and religion are two different things,” Ford broke in. “They ask different questions and require different kinds of evidence.”

Science and religion both seek the same thing: truth. There can be no reconciliation between the two. The collision of worldviews is well under way and worsening. Science has already refuted most of the core beliefs of the world’s historical religions, bringing those religions into a state of turmoil. Your task is to help humanity chart a path through the crisis
.

“Oh, please!” Edelstein cried. “You think the fanatics in the Middle East—or the Bible Belt, for that matter—are going to roll over and accept science as the new religion? That’s crazy.”

You will offer the world my words and the story of what happened here. Do not underestimate my power—the power of truth
.

“Where are we supposed to be going with this new religion? What’s the point of it? Who needs it?” Hazelius asked.

The immediate goal of humankind is to escape the limits of biochemistry. You must free your mind from the meat of your bodies
.

“The meat? I don’t understand,” said Hazelius.

Meat. Nerves. Cells. Biochemistry. The medium by which you think. You must free your mind from the meat
.

“How?”

You have already begun to process information beyond your meat existence through computers. You will soon find a way to process it using quantum-state computing machines, which will lead you to harness the natural quantum processes in the world around you as a means of computation. No longer will you need to build machines to process information. You will expand into the universe, literally and figuratively, as other intelligent entities have expanded before you. You will escape the prison of biological intelligence
.

“Then what?”

Over time, you will link up with other expanded intelligences. All these linked intelligences will discover a way to merge into a third stage of mind that will comprehend the simple reality that is at the heart of existence
.

“And that’s it? That’s what it’s all about?” Kate asked.

No. That is merely a prelude to a greater task
.

The Visualizer flickered, lines of snow shooting across. Dolby labored at his workstation, hunkered down and silent. The words rippled, as if reflected in black water.

“Which is what?” Hazelius finally asked.

Arresting the heat death of the universe
.