Day of the Delphi (28 page)

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Authors: Jon Land

BOOK: Day of the Delphi
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“And to what do we owe this change in plans?” demanded Germany.
“During the course of our last meeting, I briefed you on the involvement of Blaine McCracken. That involvement has now revealed to the U.S. government that they are backed into a corner.” Dodd paused. “There is also the possibility that McCracken has uncovered the international nature of the Delphi.”
“And our identities?” raised England.
“He could conceivably be aware of them. Accordingly, at the close of this meeting I will fax you the most recent picture we have on file of him. Just be on your guard.”
“On our guard? The entire operation is in jeopardy and that is all you can say?”
“Our operation, Japan, is not in jeopardy at all. It has
only required the adopting of a contingent strategy we’ve had ready for some time. In short, McCracken’s involvement has given Washington only one way to turn, and when they do so, we will be waiting.”
“What do you mean?” asked France.
In response Samuel Jackson Dodd laid out the revised plan for them step by step.
 
“It has only required the adopting of a contingent strategy we’ve had ready for some time. In short, McCracken’s involvement has given Washington only one way to turn, and when they do so, we will be waiting … .”
Blaine McCracken listened to what must have been a mechanically synthesized voice, Sam Jack Dodd’s probably, begin to detail the revised operation that would overthrow the U.S. government. He had managed to pick up bits and pieces of earlier parts of the discussion while crawling forward through the duct that ran along the complex’s third-floor ceiling. But it wasn’t until he reached the spot over Dreyer’s office that he could hear all the words clearly.
He lay prone inside the steel duct to enable himself to press his ear against it more easily. A cold sweat rose to the surface of his flesh as he listened, terror increasing with each successive sentence.
The President was playing right into the Delphi’s hands. The government of the United States was going to fall.
Saturday at seven
P.M … .
Not even two days from now.
And unless Blaine could get word back to Washington in a matter of hours, no one would be able to do a thing to prevent it.
 
Dreyer rose from his chair, exhilarated. His greatest dreams were on the verge of coming true. In forty-eight hours the United States would be thrown into total chaos. Thereafter, the rest of the process that would bring the AWB
to power in South Africa would be carried out without impediment.
The leader of the AWB heard the whirr of the elaborate communication system’s internal fax machine and placed his hand in front of the slot. The single page emerged only slightly rolled and possessing virtually all of the original’s clarity. Dreyer gazed at the picture of Blaine McCracken.
His eyes bulged.
He knew this man, had seen him recently, had seen him …
Today!
McCracken was among the new recruits who had arrived that afternoon! McCracken was
on the premises now
!
Nervous sweat dripping off him, Dreyer started from his desk toward the door to his office. He needed to find Colonel Smeed. They had to be both cautious and thorough in dealing with a man of McCracken’s prowess. Handle it right and Dreyer could become a hero among the Delphi, the man who rid the group of Blaine McCracken. His heart began to beat faster.
Near the door, Dreyer realized the air in the room was heavy and moist, far warmer than it should be. Dismayed, he reached up and placed his palm against one of the air-conditioning registers; it wasn’t working.
“Jesus,” Dreyer gasped, realizing. “Jesus … .”
 
McCracken retraced his path through the duct, no longer bothering to mask the sounds. He reached the roof and replaced the cover over the central duct. There was no time to reconnect the hoses he had yanked free or repair the damage he had done to the condenser. He simply retrieved the rope he had piled near the chimney and twisted the other end into a loop as well. His plan was to secure this end round a tree branch on the other side of the electrified fence and then pull himself over it to freedom.
Blaine heard the sounds of footsteps charging up the stairs that led onto the roof just as he was ready to toss the
rope. Capture clearly was unavoidable. If Dreyer believed he had overheard the meeting of the Delphi that had just concluded, he would be killed almost instantly. His best chance to survive and maintain some hope, then, was to create the illusion that he had yet to gain entry to the command center.
McCracken rushed back to the primary duct he had dropped through initially and was pretending to work the cover off when the roof door crashed open. He made sure the troops saw him toss the duct cover away before they were upon him, led by Colonel Smeed.
“I think we should have another talk, Mr. McDowell,” Smeed said, a pistol tight in his hand.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Matabu,” Kristen Kurcell greeted the man staring intently at her from behind the desk.
Bota Matabu leaned his tall, thin frame forward, his chair creaking slightly. “After the great assistance you provided my delegation during our visit to your country, it is the least I can do for you, Miss Kurcell.”
“I hope so, sir, because I’m about to ask you for a great deal more.”
Matabu’s huge, deep-set eyes did not waver. He folded his fingers together and rested his chin on his thumbs. His silk suit looked to be a top designer label, Italian probably, Kristen surmised. The patterned tie picked up the slight cream windowpane in the gray to create a look befitting the powerful and controversial leader Matabu had become. As the African National Congress’s third-ranking member, he was Nelson Mandela’s chief troubleshooter who supervised the strikes, work stoppages, and armed resistance to white reactionaries and police brutality in the townships.
“I’m listening, Miss Kurcell,” he followed, but Kristen paused before resuming.
Since the FBI had assigned men to her for protection and not restraint, she’d had little trouble slipping out of the hotel in Washington without their knowing. She had timed her escape to coincide with catching a flight to Johannesburg, where she was determined to find Blaine McCracken. He had confided the rough sketch of his plan to her before they had parted, and in the succeeding hours she’d had time to see the folly of it. There were too many things that could go wrong, and if any of them did, McCracken would be left utterly alone.
Instead of sitting passively by, Kristen decided to do whatever she could to aid Blaine. The helpless feeling that still remained inside over her brother’s death was torture enough. She couldn’t sit idly by and wait for someone else she cared for to die.
Kristen had contacted Matabu before leaving Washington, and one of his private cars was waiting to pick her up when she reached Johannesburg in the dark early hours of Friday.
“Your phone call from the States was very disturbing,” Matabu continued when Kristen did not speak. “Also vague. You said our movement was in great danger. May I assume this has something to do with a policy of some sort your government is considering?”
“No,” Kristen told him. “Not at all. The danger to the ANC comes from my country, but it has nothing to do with the government.”
Matabu’s large eyes narrowed. “I am confused, Miss Kurcell.”
“Mr. Matabu, there is strong reason to believe that American nuclear weapons have fallen into the hands of the AWB.”
Matabu’s eyebrows flickered. Beyond that, he showed no reaction. “I would have thought such a powerful and dangerous revelation would have been delivered through considerably different channels.”
“As it would surely have been, if the force responsible was not also mounting a concerted effort to overthrow my country’s government.”
Matabu’s head rose slowly from his hands. “Am I to assume that there is a connection between these two pursuits?”
“The force I speak of is determined to seek international domination by the radical right, to forge a worldwide cabal of men like Dreyer.”
Matabu’s stonelike composure wavered ever so slightly. “And how have you come by this information, Miss Kurcell?”
“Through a man who saved my life after I was taken prisoner by the group behind this threat to both our nations.” Kristen paused. “The only man who might be able to stop it from happening.”
“Yet you have come to me.”
“Because that man came over here to infiltrate Whiteland, Mr. Matabu. And I think he’s in trouble.”
 
With the stage set, Kristen proceeded to tell her tale from the beginning. By the time she had finished, Bota Matabu’s gaunt face glistened with a shiny layer of sweat. His deep-set eyes had lost their harshness and their certainty. When he finally spoke his tone was softer, almost muted.
“Then this man, this …”
“Blaine McCracken.”
“ … sought to gain access to Whiteland to uncover the substance of the … What did you call them?”
“The Delphi.”
“ … the Delphi’s plan in order to stop it.”
“Here and in the United States, Mr. Matabu. And if he fails, both of our nations will pay the price.”
“What exactly would you like me to do, Miss Kurcell?”
“Find out if he’s in there. Help him if he’s in trouble.”
“You believe me capable of a great deal.”
Kristen tried to look as determined as she felt. “I know,
Mr. Matabu, that you have held a number of meetings with members of the ECC,” she said, referring to the End Conscription Campaign that had been founded by young whites fed up with forced service to uphold the policy of apartheid they did not support. Often called the “alternative Afrikaners,” these whites were part of a grass-roots movement to bring the races together in peace.
“I believe,” she continued, “that several of these meetings had as their basis the planting of ECC members in Whiteland to provide accurate intelligence of the AWB’s plans.”
Matabu nodded, obviously impressed. “Just suppose that I have been able to place a small number of white sympathizers inside Whiteland. Suppose these sympathizers have cellular communicators with them that they use to forewarn us of planned AWB strikes against the townships.”
Kristen’s spirits lifted. “Then you must be able to make contact with them.”
“I’m afraid only they can contact me. Their next report from inside Whiteland is due at dawn. We will have to wait until then.”
 
Matabu called Kristen back into his office Friday morning after the report from one of his Whiteland infiltrators had come in.
“Please describe this McCracken,” he told her, standing rigid before his desk.
“Tall and broad, with black, wavy hair,” Kristen said, picturing Blaine McCracken in her head. “He has a closely trimmed beard and a scar running through his—”
“That is the man,” Matabu confirmed. “Apparently last night he was caught trying to sneak into the AWB command center.”
“Is he alive?”
“Only for now, I’m afraid.”
 
The first rays of the morning sun turned the hole Blaine was stuffed in into an oven. Touching the iron walls with
his bare skin singed his flesh, and it took every bit of selfcontrol to keep his breathing steady. They had stripped him down to his shorts the previous night before sealing him in this cramped cubicle, where the heat seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the air. The humidity was stifling, and with each passing minute the sun fed it further.
The sun was a major problem, but the boxlike hole itself posed an even greater one. When he was in a seated position, Blaine’s head was close to the grated top, which focused the light into even harsher beams. The hole was too small for him to stretch his legs out fully in any direction without his bare shoulders rubbing up against the sizzling walls. So Blaine had no choice but to keep his legs tucked in close to his chest, the cramping in his already weary muscles starting almost instantly.
He stretched them as best he could, knowing he had to stay strong and ready. Once the opportunity for escape arose, he must be prepared to seize it. If not, the President and the entire United States were going to fall into a deadly trap.
The shadow of one of his guards passed over the grate above him. Blaine stilled his thoughts as if they were words. The logistics of the setting ruled out a desperate dash for freedom, even if there had been a way to pry the grate off. Guns would be trained on him at this very moment. Dreyer had been waiting the night before when McCracken was brought down from the roof. Secure in the notion that Blaine had not managed to learn anything of value, the leader of the AWB had chosen the most dramatic of demises for him:
Blaine was to be shot by a firing squad at noon, right about the time the President would be embarking on a path certain to ensure the fall of his administration.
 
In the Situation Room of the White House, General Trevor Cantrell had the floor. He stood before a color-coded
map of Washington, indicating various pickup points keyed to one of the three destinations the government was going to be moved to.
“How long to manage total evacuation?” the President asked.
“Eight to ten hours for those currently in the capital, and that’s a liberal figure, sir.”
“I’d like to hear the procedure again,” requested National Security Advisor Angela Taft.
“A simple message will be played over every Washington radio station every fifteen minutes. CNN and all other news broadcasts will carry a certain commercial every ten minutes. A number of selected group leaders will be personally telephoned and asked to begin a chain system to reach all those readily accessible. Beyond that, Emergency Communications, or EMER-COM, has on file all the numbers of those on the Evac list who carry beepers: roughly seventy percent. That will insure we don’t miss anyone.”
“Have you determined exactly how many are in town?” asked Charlie Byrne.
Cantrell looked to Ben Samuelson of the FBI before responding. “With Mr. Samuelson’s help, I’ve determined that number to be between ninety and ninety-two percent. Best strategic estimates in the past have run somewhere around three-quarters, so we’re well ahead of the game.”
“No effort, I assume, has been made to contact those who are not readily accessible,” said the President.
“No, sir, and for obvious reasons. A possible leak has to be avoided at all costs. I’m afraid those not included in the Evac will have to accept being left out of the government for as long as it takes to restore order.”
“Assuming we end up losing that order,” said Charlie Byrne.
“And just how do we keep the city from realizing the people governing the nation have taken their collective leave?” followed the President.
“None of the pickup points are in public areas. All helicopter
drops will be made by army choppers, hardly an unfamiliar site in the city.”
“What about those charged with the transportation end of things?” raised Angela Taft.
“All pilots and drivers are currently on alert, ma’am. We run drills constantly, so they’re none the wiser about what’s going on. We won’t lose time on their account.”
“But if we try to pull all this off in eight to ten hours,” started the President, “plenty of people are going to take notice, the media included. I think we should spread it out further, through all of tomorrow if necessary.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” reminded Ben Samuelson, echoing his sentiments. “The people we’ve got to get out won’t be working anyway. Makes perfect sense.”
“Agreed, but I strongly suggest that those slated for Mount Weather leave as soon as we go to alert status,” Cantrell stated, referring to the justices of the Supreme Court, Cabinet members, and selected other government officials. “That would include you, sir.”
“And I’m willing to accept that so long as you’re confident we can control things from inside Mount Weather. I had only a cursory tour and there wasn’t much I understood about the technical aspects.”
“You can run the country as confidently from Mount Weather as you can from the White House, sir. In fact, replicas have been constructed of the Oval Office and White House press room to make the country think you’re still in Washington, if you so choose.”
“I’d still be more comfortable overseeing things from where I am now,” the President said, hedging.
“Speaking of which,” began Ben Samuelson, “someone’s got to coordinate security for the city if the siege comes. That’s the job of the FBI.” He looked toward Cantrell. “The general and I have already discussed this.”
“Troops from the Seventh Light Infantry are in position to move in now, sir,” Cantrell explained. “Once in place
they could be placed under the direct command of Mr. Samuelson.”
“Let’s back up a minute, General,” said the President. “How do we move the Seventh LID in without attracting the very kind of fuss we seem so determined to avoid?”
“My suggestion,” Angela Taft threw in, “would be to say nothing until the siege begins, if it begins. Then, sir, you inform the media—and the nation—from inside Mount Weather.”
The President nodded, as satisfied as he was going to be. “Okay, people. According to my watch it’s four A.M. I want to be ready to move by dawn.”
 
“It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” Matabu said with grim detachment after explaining the final elements of his plan to Kristen. In the wake of learning about McCracken’s impending death by firing squad, he had put the plan together quickly with the reluctant support of his plants from the ECC inside Whiteland.
“It’ll be enough,” she told him.
“I’m afraid I do not share your confidence.”
“That’s because you don’t know Blaine McCracken.”
Matabu checked his watch. “But I do know we’d better get moving if we want to be in position on the chance he makes it out.”

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