Day of the Delphi (38 page)

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Authors: Jon Land

BOOK: Day of the Delphi
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“Converted low-yield artillery shell,” Revens identified and looked back at Blaine. “One of those you told us was stolen, no doubt.”
“Low yield or not, it’s enough to put the government out of business for a long time if it goes off,” Blaine told him.
“It won’t be going off, sir,” Revens assured as his team went about their individual tasks in quick, coordinated motion. Tools were brought out, cases containing varying sizes of magnifying glasses and lenses unloaded. There was also a machine that was designed to the specifications of a stethoscope, only rigged to a sound board with dials and gauges. He recognized a second device as an instant X-ray machine.
To McCracken, it all seemed too simple, too pat. For Dodd to have come this far, gone through all this, and leave no extra surprises at the end was not something he could accept. So what was it? What were they missing?
Another bomb perhaps, a second one, to be ignored after this one had been found?
No. The portable locater would have picked up two blips if that were the case.
“I know this baby well,” Revens continued. He was crouching in the ditch now, eyeing the shell confidently. “Won’t even have to use all this stuff to shut her down.”
Revens turned the waist-high warhead on its side and affixed a pair of suction cups to the locking mechanism on its underside. The suction cups were connected to an elaborate sensor mechanism that looked like a laptop computer but was actually a master unlocking system allocated to battalion field commanders so they could manually deactivate their warheads in any eventuality. The final fail-safe procedure in the loop.
As Blaine watched, numbers began flying across the device’s small screen. Four locked home and began flashing.
“Halfway there,” Revens said to McCracken and Colonel Gash.
The clock, facing upward with the warhead tipped onto its side, ticked to 3:59.
A fifth number joined the others on the screen and began flashing. The next two followed at intervals of fifteen seconds. When the machine correctly identified the eighth and final one the screen emptied except for the eight numbers. Revens hit the keyboard’s execute key.
The clock had reached 3:20.
The two men on either side of Revens brought the instant X-ray machine, along with what looked like an electronic stethoscope.
“Now we check for booby traps before I remove the lock.”
“No!” Blaine said, dropping down into the ditch. “This warhead would have an internal clock, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then why bother with one we can see?” He looked back at Gash. “It’s here to fool us. It might read two minutes and forty-five seconds, but we don’t have that much time left.”
“What do you suggest, Captain?” Gash asked him.
Blaine swung toward Revens. “Remove the lock now.”
“Sir, if I do that and it’s booby-trapped …”
“They wouldn’t bother with a booby trap. They would have figured the clock was enough.”
Revens looked at Gash. The colonel nodded.
The clock read 2:30.
Reluctantly, Revens cupped the sophisticated housing that fastened the lock required for detonation into the warhead. With the proper unlocking code entered, he turned it to the right. It clicked into place at the 2:19 mark and he started to twist it back to the left.
Click
.
2:13 …
Revens moved his left hand up to join his right and used both to grasp the locking mechanism’s ridged edges. If the warhead was booby-trapped, they’d all know soon enough.
2:08 …
Revens held his breath and started to slide the locking mechanism toward him. He had it in hand and cradled like a baby as the countdown clock facing the ceiling ticked to the two-minute mark.
“This country owes you a lot, Blaine,” the President said yet again, “one hell of a lot.”
Three days had passed since the battle of Washington had ended, and this was the first time in that period that McCracken had met with the President alone. The commander-in-chief had insisted on returning to the White House after spending only a single night at Camp David. Tyson Gash’s 911 Brigade had left the task of mopping up the city to the 82nd Airborne, who arrived just over four hours after the battle of Washington had begun. Had the 911 stayed long enough for the media to descend once Prometheus was deactivated, they would have been hailed as heroes. Gash would have been able to name his terms for return to the service that had spurned him. Instead, just before dawn the men of the 911 were trucked to Andrews Air Force Base, where their transport planes were waiting to ferry all troops and equipment back to their Arizona base. The only ones not making the trip were the few casualties, and their hospital stays promised to be as quiet as they were short.
The 82nd served as backup for Delta Force in the retaking of Greenbrier and Site R as well. None of the temporary inhabitants of either locale fully understood what had happened. There were numerous rumors, but hard facts were difficult to come by and the truth remained elusive. Only the President, Charlie Byrne, Angela Taft, and Ben Samuelson knew the whole story, and they had no intention of sharing it.
By Monday, incredibly, the government was up and running again. Since very little damage had been done to the Capitol’s interior, Congress held a virtually normal session even as construction crews began the massive repair job outside. The nation’s representatives attacked their roles with renewed vigor and pride. In that sense the very basis for the day of the Delphi had been proven wrong. The government emerged from the crisis stronger than ever.
“It’s not finished yet, sir. It’s not over,” Blaine told the President as they strolled through the Rose Garden.
“You’re talking about Dodd, of course.”
“What happens when he comes down off his space station, Mr. President?”
“What would you like to see happen, Mr. McCracken?”
“I’d like to be standing there to personally slap the handcuffs on him and place him under arrest for treason.”
“Which, I’m told, still carries the death penalty with it.”
“Under the right circumstances it does, sir.”
The President stopped. “And could the country handle the trial, Blaine?”
“I’m not sure the country could handle
not
having the trial.”
“In this case I don’t agree with you, Blaine. In fact I question which McCracken I’m speaking to. The one who spent the last dozen years on the outside, or the one who spent the last week on the in? The former would be advocating Dodd’s arrest, incarceration, and the biggest trial this nation has ever seen. The latter would realize allowing everything he tried to do to come out might tear this country apart.”
“You’re making the same mistake Dodd did, sir: you’re not giving the country enough credit.”
“Maybe. But a trial would give Dodd a forum for his ideas, and if his lawyers found a way to get him off, he could conceivably emerge from this in an even stronger position. Right or wrong?”
“Right,” Blaine conceded.
“And we could be facing all this again some other time, if not from Dodd, then from someone else. Right or wrong?”
McCracken’s eyes gave his answer.
The President looked at him thoughtfully. “After all this is over and done with, I want to keep you on the inside, and the only way you can stay here is to think in those terms. There’s got to be some other means to deal with Samuel Jackson Dodd.”
 
The space shuttle
Atlantis
squeezed against the docking bay of the space station
Olympus
. Its occupants felt a hefty thump as the seal took hold.
“Docking achieved,” the pilot announced.
“Enter when ready,” the station commander greeted.
Sam Jack Dodd had followed the shuttle’s approach carefully, wondering what or who might be waiting on board for him.
“Mr. Dodd?” a voice called from within
Atlantis
over Dodd’s private channel.
“I believe that must be the voice of Blaine McCracken,” he responded. “I’m gratified you made the trip personally.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m speaking to you from earth. I’ve had my fill of traveling on space shuttles.”
“Of course, that nasty Omega business.”
“I see my reputation precedes me.”
“You’ll be meeting me on the ground, I suspect.”
“Nope.”
“Your surrogates, then.”
“No again. Your limousine will be there, as expected.”
Dodd smirked. “In that case, I assume that you’re calling to make some sort of deal on behalf of—”
“Wrong for the third time. You must be having a bad day, Mr. Dodd.”
“Whose side exactly are you on, Mr. McCracken?”
“The side of anyone who is willing to stand up against men like you.”
“Like
me
? I should point out that might well include yourself. After all, what more do the two of us want than what’s best for the country?”
“I guess I want plenty more. Like making sure we maintain self-determination. The country’s got to chart its own course, Mr. Dodd. It’s not up to individual men or groups to force the future down anyone’s throat. I saw the results of that Saturday night, and I’ve seen them before. Lots of people died down here for no reason at all. Lots more were injured. And just about everyone else is scared.”
“That’s the point! You’re missing it!”
“And you missed it a long time ago. A country’s not a business, not a simple commodity. It’s a living, breathing entity. We grow, we change. If the day of the Delphi had worked, there would be no growth, no change. There would be only a prescription based on your diagnosis to be filled and swallowed. Sorry, Mr. Dodd. The country might be sick right now, but it doesn’t need the kind of medicine you advocate.”
Dodd wandered to the small viewing portal before responding over the speaker. “For a simple killer, you know how to turn a phrase. I look forward to meeting you on the ground.”
“Like I said, I won’t be there.”
“You’re letting me off?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“But the country must be spared embarrassment, mustn’t it?” Dodd smiled to himself. Hope rose anew. “Of course I should have known.” Once again, the government’s weakness had worked to his favor. “Don’t expect me to promise I won’t try it again,” he added defiantly. “Don’t expect me to promise anything.”
“I don’t.”
“We’ll meet someday, Mr. McCracken.”
“No, Mr. Dodd, I don’t think we will.”
McCracken was visiting Kristen Kurcell in the hospital when the space shuttle
Atlantis
touched down with Samuel Jackson Dodd on board, met only by his standard private security detail. Baffled but no less wary, Dodd climbed into his limousine and was driven off. He knew McCracken would be coming for him before too long and intended to be ready.
The bullet she had taken inside Arlo Cleese’s van had done a lot of damage to Kristen’s leg. Surgery had been performed early Sunday morning and she’d finished her first therapy session an hour before Blaine’s arrival on Wednesday afternoon. The pain had been excruciating, the simplest motion suddenly difficult.
“I always wanted a personal trainer,” she said to Blaine. The furrows pain had dug in her face during therapy were still evident. “You wouldn’t be available, would you?”
He sat down close to her on the bed and took her hand. “For the right price.”
“I mean, I’ve got to figure you’re an expert. Saturday night was just routine to you.”
“It’s never routine. Some are just worse than others.”
“This one?”
“Definitely in the top three.” Blaine slid closer to Kristen and stroked her hair with his free hand. “But maybe the next one will hold off for a while, long enough for me to help you mend that leg anyway.”
“Money will be a problem. I’m currently unemployed, in case you forgot.”
“I’ve got friends in Washington now. Let me see what I can do.”
“Must feel strange.”
“Having friends?”
“In Washington, anyway. Plan on staying?”
“Depends on how I’m treated,” Blaine told her. “I was a resident before. I didn’t like the company. No pun intended.”
“Times change.”
“Not really. But people do, and maybe the cycle’s come round again. It’s not who you bring to the dance, Kris, it’s who you leave with.”
She looked down at her heavily bandaged leg. “No dancing for me for a while.”
“Then we’ll have to find something else to do in the meantime.”
He pulled her head close to him and kissed her warmly.
 
“Looking for something, Indian?”
McCracken stopped a yard short of Johnny Wareagle, who was staring intently at one of the black slab sections of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
“The missing names of those who served with us,” Johnny said without turning. A sling he had already stopped using hung down from his damaged left shoulder. “I have stood here imagining them incised on the black amid the others, Blainey.” He swung slowly at last. “I liked the sight.”
“You’ve got some favors coming to you too, Indian.”
Wareagle gazed back at the memorial. “Enough to make them add the names, Blainey?”
“Maybe. Folks here in the capital are in a real appeasing mood right now. Saturday night gave them another way of looking at things.”
The nuclear warheads Wareagle had kept from Traggeo’s possession were still under heavy guard in the abandoned Colorado mine. There was no way to salvage the green containers Boy Scout Troop 116 had helped him unload until the renewed spring warmth melted all of the snow and made it safe for trucks to negotiate Mountain Pass. Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after.
Wareagle regarded McCracken skeptically. “Are these folks looking through your eyes, Blainey, or are you looking through theirs?” He paused and took a step away from the memorial. “Years ago we shared our separate partings from
them because we had convinced ourselves we were outsiders. But we were wrong, too close to the center to realize where we stood in relation to those who scorned us.
They
are the true outsiders. Yet they don’t realize it, because from their perspective everything revolves around them.”
“The battle of Washington may have broadened that perspective.”
“Only for a time, Blainey. Take advantage of it while it is there.”
“I plan to, Indian.”
 
It began with a nineteen-point single-day drop on Wall Street, fueled by rumors of an investigation into fraud over government contracts. The IRS issued its own statement. The Justice Department had convened a grand jury. In a mere forty-eight-hour period, Dodd Industries and its many subdivisions had plunged to the verge of bankruptcy as panicked selling shook markets all across the world.
On the nation’s docks, the longshoremen’s union refused to load or unload any Dodd freighter. Dodd Industries’ international shipping business was brought to a halt when its jets were denied clearance to file flight plans to airports from Los Angeles to Sydney, to Tokyo, to London. A strike shut down the conglomerate’s industrial and manufacturing plants. And all this shared a front-page item on every major national daily detailing a long litany of bribes Sam Jack Dodd had passed to help build his empire. Indictments were pending.
It was just the beginning. And also the end.
Samuel Jackson Dodd would never stand trial for treason. The carefully placed rumors of his part in the near destruction of Washington were enough to do the job, even if the collective truths of his past hadn’t suddenly been exposed.
With the authority and backing of the. White House, Blaine McCracken had put his strategy into effect by making quiet visits to a number of individuals in the proper
unions, brokerage houses, and government agencies. None were told all, but all were told enough to want Samuel Jackson Dodd put out of business for good. Dodd might escape jail, but not the scandal certain to strip him of his vast power and prevent the day of the Delphi from ever dawning again.

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