Covert One 3 - The Paris Option (56 page)

“Tolerable. Starting to sweat though. Could use a shower.”

“I know.”

“Ready to take over, Brandon?”

“There won't be any need for that.”

The president gave a mirthless chuckle. “Always liked your confidence. I'll be in touch.” He clicked off. As he adjusted his weight uneasily in the chair, a sharp knocking hammered his door. “Come!”

Chuck Ouray entered. His face was a gray mask, and his legs appeared wobbly. “It's STRATCOM command center, sir. The experimental missile defense has crashed. There's nothing left for us to do. We're totally helpless. The chiefs are talking to the scientists, trying to get everything back up, but they're not optimistic.”

“On my way.”

Chteau la Rouge

Tension filled the dank old armory. Jon peered anxiously over Marty's shoulder at the computer screen. The room was cold and quiet. The only sounds were of muted gunfire and the clicking of the keyboard as Marty frantically worked.

Jon did not want to interrupt Marty. Still: “Can you abort the missile?”

“I'm trying.” Marty's voice was hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to talk. He glanced up. “Dam it, I did too good a job teaching Emile. He's done a lot of damagehellip;and I'm to blame!” His gaze returned to the monitor, and he pounded the keyboard, searching for a way to stop the missile. “Emile learned fasthellip;I've found it. Oh no! The missile's at its apogeehalfway across the Atlantic!”

Jon felt himself tremble. His nerves were as taut as a violin string. He took a breath to relax and clamped a reassuring hand on Marty's shoulder. “You've got to find some wayhellip; any wayhellip;to stop that nuclear warhead, Mart.”

Captain Darius Bonnard leaned against the stone wall, his bloody left arm dangling useless, a wadded shirt pressed against his bleeding side, as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Most of the men were behind a barricade of heavy medieval furniture around the corner. He could hear the general calling orders and encouraging them. Bonnard listened with a small smile on his face. He had expected to die in some glorious Legion battle against a powerful enemy of France, but this apparently small contest might be even more worthy, and the enemy the most crucial of all. After all, this was a clear-cut struggle for the future.

As he comforted himself with those thoughts, he saw a sweaty soldier of the Second Legion Regiment rushing toward him, heading for the barricade.

Bonnard held up his hand. “Stop. Report.”

“We found Maurice, tied and gagged. He was guarding the Chambord woman. He says his attackers were three men and an armed woman. The Islamics wouldn't have a female soldier.”

Bonnard staggered upright. It had to be that CIA witch, which meant Jon Smith and his people were here. Leaning on the Legionnaire's shoulder, he stumbled around the corner, fell behind the barricade, and crawled to where La Porte was crouched and firing at the wall of furniture at the distant end of the passage.

Bonnard panted. “Colonel Smith's here, General. In the castle. He's got three people with him.”

La Porte frowned and checked his watch. It was seconds before midnight. He gave a brief, satisfied smile. “Do not concern yourself, Darius. They're too late” He paused, realizing the number was significant. Four. There should be only three Smith, the Englishman Howell, and the CIA woman. “Zellerbach! They must have brought Zellerbach, too. If anyone can interfere with the attack, it's him.” He bawled orders. Then: “Retreat! To the armory. Go!”

As the men raced away, La Porte gazed at his longtime aide, who looked badly wounded. With luck, he would die. Still, it was a risk to wait. He checked to make certain the Legionnaires' backs were turned.

“What is it, mon Geacute;neacute;ral?” Bonnard was watching him weakly, puzzled.

La Porte felt a moment of sentiment. “Thank you for all your good services.” Then he shrugged and whispered, “Bon voyage, Darius.” He shot him in the head, jumped to his feet, and trotted after his soldiers.

Omaha, Nebraska

The president and his entourage were packed into three heavily armored SUVs, speeding across Offutt's tarmac. Inside his SUV, the president's radio crackled. He picked it up and listened as a disembodied voice from the command center reported, “We're not making any headway, Mr. President.” The man's tones hinted at barely controlled panic. “The codes keep readjusting. We can't imagine how they did this. It's impossible for a computer to react so fast . . .”

“Not impossible for this computer,” Chief of Staff Ouray muttered.

The president and Emily Powell-Hill ignored him as the radio voice crackled on, “hellip;it's got to be reacting automatically to a random pattern like a boxer in a ring. Waithellip;dammit, nohellip;”

Abruptly a new radio-transmitted voice interrupted. A woman. “We've got a bogie on the radar, sir. It's a missile. Incoming. Russian ICBM. Nuclear. My God. It'shellip;what? Say that again? You're sure?” Her tone changed, grew authoritative and calm, strong and responsible. “Mr. President. It's aimed at Omaha, sir. I don't think we're going to be able to stop it. It's too late. Get down below, or leave the air space immediately.”

The first voice, rising now, returned: “hellip;I can't get a lock. I can'thellip;”

Chteau la Rouge

Abu Auda cocked his head, listening. The electric wall lamps had been shot out, and the corridor was in smoky twilight. Slowly he arose behind the barricade, and his desert-trained eyes studied the opposing wall of furniture.

“They're gone, Khalid,” he told Mauritania. “Inshallah!” he celebrated.

The men of the Crescent Shield, weary and wounded, shouted a cheer and clambered over the barricade.

Mauritania raised a hand for silence. “Do you hear it?”

They listened. For the moment, there was no gunfire anywhere in the castle. But there was the noise of running feet. Boots. It had to be the Legionnaires of the French general, running not toward them, but the other waytoward the keep.

Mauritania's cold blue eyes flashed. “Come, Abu Auda, we must collect the rest of our men.”

“Good. We'll leave this accursed castle to fight another day against the enemies of Islam.”

Mauritania, still wearing the tattered bedouin robes he'd had on since Algeria, shook his head. “No, my warrior friend. We don't leave this castle without what you came for.”

“We came for you, Mauritania.”

“Then you're a fool. For our cause, we need Chambord and his miraculous machine. I won't go without it. We'll find the rest of our men, and then the French general. The pig, La Porte. Where he is, the computer will be.”

In the dimly lit armory with its musty weapons and chilly air, Marty let out another raging monologue as he struggled to abort the nuclear missile as it closed in on its target.

On the carpet near his feet, Theacute;regrave;se Chambord stirred. Ever since Jon had pronounced her father dead, she had sat motionless beside him, weeping quietly, holding his hand, almost in a trance.

Now as Marty suddenly resumed ranting, she lifted her head, listeninghellip;

“hellip;You cannot win, you unenlightened beast! I don't care how difficult that diabolical Emile's codes are. I will flay you alive and hang your scaly skin on my walls with all the other fire-breathing dragons I've bested in mortal combat. There, you feeble creature, take that! Yes, there goes another defensehellip;take thishellip; Aha!”

Meanwhile, outside on the tower landing, Peter and Randi crouched in long shadows, guarding the armory. The air smelled of dust and cordite floating up from below, stinging their noses.

“Hear that, Peter?” Randi asked in her low, throaty voice.

Her weapon was trained on the enclosed stairwell, which descended from here all the way to the castle's first level as well as rising into the east tower above them. There was an opening the size of a large door at each level.

“Indeed I do hear it. Buggers just won't quit. Annoying.” Peter's gun was trained on the opening to the stairwell, too.

They listened to boots climbing up toward them, trying to be quiet on the stone steps. As soon as the first of the Legionnaires appeared, Randi and Peter fired. There was a spray of blood as a bullet shattered the fellow's temple. He fell back. There was a sudden scramble as the rest of the Legionnaires retreated.

Peter turned and called an urgent warning into the armory: “Heads up. La Porte's men have arrived!”

“Hurry it up in there!” Randi shouted. “It sounds as if there are a lot more than we expected!”

Theacute;regrave;se, still seated on the floor beside her father's corpse, seemed to rally. “I'll help.” She squeezed her father's hand and rested it on his chest. She laid his other hand on top of the first. She sighed, picked up the FAMAS rifle Jon had given her, and stood. She looked frail and distraught in the armory's musky light.

Jon said, “Are you all right?”

“No. But I will be.” It was almost as if a wave of energy coursed through her, and she seemed to gather herself. She gazed down at her father, a sad smile on her face. “He lived a good life and did important work. At the end, he was betrayed by a delusion. I'll always remember him as a great man.”

“I understand. Be careful out there.”

She nodded. With her free hand, she collected the ammunition Jon had given her and moved off toward the landing. She broke into a trot as she disappeared out the door.

Almost immediately Jon heard her FAMAS open fire to help repel another attack up the stairs. The responding fire was blistering. La Porte's renegade soldiers were fighting back this time. The noise echoed through the armory, sending chills up Jon's spine. He wanted to be out there, helping them.

Jon said, “Mart? How are you doing? Are you making any progress? Is there anything I can do to help?” If they had little time to escape, America had less.

Marty was leaning intently over his keyboard. There was an air of expectation about him, perhaps even hope. His portly body was almost doubled over, coiled tight as a spring. “Die! Die! Die! You monstrous monster of. . .” He sprang up.

“What is it?” Jon asked. “What's happened!”

Marty pirouetted, raised his arms above his head, and pumped his fists up and down with excitement.

“Dammit, Marty. Tell me what's happened!”

“Look! Look!” Marty pointed at the monitor.

As the gunfire lessened again out on the landing, Jon stared. Instead of the monotonous lines of numbers and letters, the black monitor sparkled with silver-white stars, a rendition of the night sky. On the right side was an outline of the French coast, while on the left were landmarks indicating the United States as far west as Omaha, Nebraska. A dotted red line was moving in an arced path toward Omaha. At the end of the line, seemingly pulling it along, was a tiny red arrow.

“Does this show the progress of the missile Chambord launched?” Jon asked. “The one with the nuclear warhead?”

“Yes. Keep your eyes on the screen.” Marty looked at his watch and counted, “Fivehellip;fourhellip;threehellip;twohellip; one!”

The red arrow exploded in a small white burst, like a puff of whipped cream.

Jon stared, hoping he understood correctly. “Is that the missile?”

“Was the missile!” Marty did a wobbly dance on the stone floor. “It's gone!”

“That's it? You're sure, Mart?” Jon stared, allowing himself the first tendrils of excitement. “Absolutely sure?”

“I made it blow itself up! While it was still over the ocean. It never even reached our coast!” He twirled and listed over to kiss the monitor, nearly losing his balance. “Wonderful machine! I love you, machine!” A tear appeared at the corner of his eye. “America's safe, Jon.”

In the old armory, Marty skipped in a circle, celebrating his triumphant destruction of the nuclear missile that would have killed millions of Americans. ]on watched his joy for a few seconds, still absorbing the great news himself, while outside on the landing, occasional bursts of gunfire told him that Peter, Randi, and Theacute;regrave;se were holding on, defending the tower from being overrun by the Legionnaires.

But they could not stop them forever. They were badly outnumbered. Now that the missile threat was over, they needed to escape.

Marty stopped to face Jon. His voice was breathy and filled with relief, as if he could hardly believe it himself. “America's safe, Jon. America's safe!”

“But we're not, Marty.” Jon ran to the door to check on the activity on the landing. “Can you restore all the satellite communications?”

“Of course.”

“Do it.”

Marty swung back to the computer and resumed work.

Jon leaned out to where Peter, Randi, and Theacute;regrave;se guarded the stairs. They were kneeling and lying flat, finding cover where they could in the large, shadowy space.

“Can you hold them a few more minutes?” he asked.

“Make it damned few,” Randi warned, her face worried.

He nodded and rushed back to Marty. “How much longer?”

“Waithellip;waithellip;there!” Marty grinned up at him. “Compared to stopping the missile, this was a stroll on the beach. The communications are clear.”

“Good. Send this.” Jon rattled off a series of numbers, a code that guaranteed his message would reach Fred Klein. “Then add: La Porte, Normandy, Chteau la Rouge, now.”

Marty's fingers flew. He was bouncing in his chair, still excited, radiating optimism. “Done. What next?”

“Next we run.”

Marty looked shocked. He frowned and shook his head. “No, Jon. We can't just leave the computer. We'll dismantle it. That way we can take it with us.”

“Wrong,” Jon snapped. He had tried that already, and the firing outside the armory was growing louder. “We don't have time.”

Marty wailed, “But, Jon, we have to take the prototype. What if General La Porte's people recapture it?”

“They won't,” Jon grabbed the protesting genius and dragged him toward the door.

“Let go, Jon,” Marty said huffily. “I can walk by myself.”

“Run.”

On the landing, Peter, Randi, and Theacute;regrave;se had beaten the renegade Legionnaires back down the steps once more. Theacute;regrave;se had ripped up her last remaining sleeve and used it to bind a bloody flesh wound on Peter's thigh. Randi had been hit in the upper arm, the bullet going clean through without any major damage. A tight bandage stemmed the bleeding.