Extinction Machine (21 page)

“How many people were killed?” I asked, aghast.

“Only two. It was nothing. Boring. Wrong location and time of year for anything interesting.”

“‘Interesting’?” I echoed.

Hu shrugged again, unabashed by his delight in the subject. “If our bad guys can knock down Cumbre Vieja then things would get really interesting really fast.”

He looked delighted at the prospect. I wondered how long I would have to punch him before I felt better. “So … who would do this?” I asked.

Hu shook his head. “I have no idea.”

We stared at the image on the screen. Seconds burned themselves to cinders around us as the strange implausibility of this warred with the terrible implications. Hu replayed the video and we watched the president with his glazed eyes and dead voice repeat his warnings over and over again.

There was a question that had to be asked. No one wanted to put it out there, so I did.

“Is this really going to happen if we don’t find that book?” I asked. “Guys … do we believe this?”

Church and Hu looked at the screen, at each other, then at me.

“What choice do we have?” said Hu.

“Oh,” said Church, “it gets worse.”

“‘Worse’?” I said. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m half a bad decision away from jumping out of the helicopter right now.”

Hu grinned at the prospect.

“A few minutes ago Linden Brierly sent me a series of photographs taken in the Rose Garden,” Church said. “The pictures are of something that Secret Service agents discovered on the lawn minutes after the president went missing. There are some additional details,” he said, “but right now I want you to look at the pictures and tell me what you think it is.”

Hu and I exchanged a look. It was clear he didn’t like this kind of lead-in any more than I did.

Church sent the picture to our screens. There were twelve photos, all from different angles and heights. After cycling through them, Church took the clearest one and expanded it to fill the screen.

“Brierly’s people took exact measurements,” said Church. “It is a little over three meters across.”

I was no whiz when it came to conspiracy theories or UFOs, let’s all agree on that, but even I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Clearly, so had Hu. I saw the expression on his face. This image twisted him into an entirely new mental state and all sorts of expressions warred on his features. Denial, anger, shock. Fear.

He said, “No fucking way.”

I was having a hard time with this myself. “Okay, I’m throwing a flag down on this play. Are you trying to tell me that there’s a goddamn crop circle on the White House lawn?”

“Apparently so,” said Church.

So, I said, “Okay, then tell me how in the hell it got there?”

“No one knows,” said Church, and he filled us in on how the circle was discovered.

Hu kept shaking his head in denial, but at the same time he leaned close and peered at the pattern. “Wait a damn minute … you said that this was a little over ten feet. Did they do an
exact
measurement?”

An enigmatic little smile curled the edges of Church’s mouth. “As a matter of fact,” he said softly, “I anticipated that question, Doctor. After seeing the image I requested that they take a new set of measurements. I asked them to be as precise as possible. It is ten feet and three point six eight inches across. Or, to put it another way, it is three point one four one five nine meters across.”

“Wait,” I said. “Why do I know that number? It sounds familiar.”

“It should,” said Hu, “if you ever stayed awake in math class. It’s the value of pi.”

Church nodded to the image. “Doctor … what does the pattern itself tell you?”

“It’s
pi,
” he said, his voice dull. “It’s all pi.”

“Be a bit more specific.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Doctor, I would appreciate a little focus here,” said Church mildly. “Please give us an analysis of the image.”

“Okay, okay, damn it,” snarled Hu. He began jabbing his fingers at different parts of the pattern. “This is basic math. Those radial lines corresponded to a grid dividing the circle into ten equal slices. The grooves in the circle spiral outward with orderly steps at various points. Each step occurs at particular angles, and the circle itself is divided into ten equal segments of thirty-six degrees each. If you start at the center, you can see that the first section is three segments wide; then there’s a step and underneath this step is a small circle. That’s the decimal point. The next section is one segment wide and then there’s another step. The next section is four segments wide, and so on until the final number encoded is three point one four one five nine two six five four.
Pi.
” He paused, then added, “Fuck me.”

“And how long after the president vanished did this appear?” I asked.

“Minutes,” said Church.

“Made by little floating lights,” I said. Just saying it. Putting that on the wall for us all to look at.

“Fuck me,” repeated Hu.

Chapter Forty-one

Private airfield
Near Baltimore, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 9:34 a.m.

Tull brought the Mustang down out of a clear sky and landed on an empty runway in a deserted airfield. Except for Aldo seated beside him, the world could have been completely empty of people. There were no cars at the airport, no other planes taking off or landing. Only the Mustang. Tull taxied it toward the lee of the tiny airport’s main hangar.

Tull debated letting this all go. He could pull a gun on Aldo, force his friend off the plane, and then take off again. He had enough fuel to get to West Virginia or Pennsylvania, find a place to refuel and then vanish off the grid. Tull had enough identities prepared, accounts in a dozen names, safe houses and bolt-holes. Even some friends in low places who could help him get so far off the radar that even M3 couldn’t find him.

Would that do it? he wondered. If he cut all ties with the Project, with Majestic Three and the Closers and all of it, would that be enough to allow him to change who he was? Would it allow him to finally be human in every sense of the word? Most of him already was, maybe the rest was buried somewhere, like junk DNA waiting for the right trigger to activate it. If M3 was totally out of his life, would that give him a life?

And … what would that feel like?

Most of him yearned to find out, ached to know.

A smaller part of him cringed back from that thought. What if becoming fully human meant that his conscience would try to catch up on all of the sins he’d committed? He wondered if taking Aldo’s cue and confessing to a priest would really save him from the agony of feeling something about what he’d done.

What if he got away and then every time he closed his eyes he relived that last moment with Berenice? Even now, when he thought about the surprise and doubt and sudden horrible understanding in her eyes as she stared past the barrel of his pistol and into his eyes, there was some flicker of something deep in his mind. Was that a nascent conscience fearing to be born?

“Yo,” said Aldo, and Tull realized that it wasn’t the first time his friend had spoken. He blinked his eyes like a reptile and then he was back in the present moment.

“What?”

“Earth calling Erasmus Tull. Where the hell’d you go?”

Tull sighed. “Getting my head in the game is all.”

Aldo gave him a curious look, but said nothing.

As they unbuckled and gathered up their gear, it occurred to Tull that if he did try to run from M3, the governors would almost certainly send Aldo after him. It saddened him. Not that his friend would accept the hit, but the thought of killing Aldo. Tull had no other friends.

They opened the door, folded down the stairs and deplaned. Tull was pleased to see a car waiting for them when they descended from the Mustang. It was three-year-old black GMC Yukon. Clean but not gleaming, with visible wear on the bumpers and some scuffing on the sidewalls. Bumper stickers on the back from half a dozen family resorts where fishing was an attraction. Strip across the back window that said their kid went to Morgan State University. Trailer hitch. The kind of vehicle no one would look twice at.

Tull nodded his approval.

The key was in a magnetic box under the rear fender. They stowed their gear on the rear seat and went to the back. The spare was a fake and it opened on a hinge to reveal a flat steel safe. Aldo punched in the code and opened it to uncover the first layer of goodies. Two Sig Sauer pistols and multiple preloaded magazines, two microwave pulse pistols with one extra battery each, various small electronic gadgets, a spare battery pack for the Ghost Box, and leather wallets with ID, cash, and credit cards in six different names each. They lifted out the top layer and poked at the devices snugged into carefully molded foam-cushion slots.

Aldo whistled. “Holy rat shit fuck. They weren’t joking about the clean sweep.”

“Be prepared,” said Tull. “A million Boy Scouts can’t all be wrong.”

They replaced the top layer and studied the weapons. Tull had his personal .22 pistol strapped to his ankle, but he selected a 9mm Sig Sauer, dropped the empty mag that had been put in place for transport, worked the slide to make sure there was no bullet in the chamber. He removed a full magazine of hollowpoints, slapped it into place, set the safety, and snugged the gun in a shoulder holster. Aldo did the same.

They stuffed several gadgets into their pockets, closed the false tire into its compartment, and shut the rear door.

After they climbed into the cab, Aldo said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, why?”

“You’re making a face.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“What kind of face?”

“I don’t know. A face. Like something’s grabbing your balls. You sweating the fact that we have to take a run at your old boss?”

“No, it has nothing to do with that.” Tull gave him a short, bitter laugh and clapped Aldo on the shoulder. “I just think that it would be better for everyone if I’d stayed retired.”

“Yeah,” said Aldo, eyeing him dubiously, “well life’s a kick in the nuts sometimes.”

“Yes it is.”

“You really out after this?” asked Aldo. “For good, I mean. No more farewell tours.”

“Definitely. What about you?”

Aldo looked up into the dark blue sky. “You’re gonna laugh, but I always wanted to open a barber shop. Not a hair salon, nothing faggy like that. I mean a real barbershop. Old school, Brooklyn style. Two, three chairs. Red and white pole outside. Maybe me and my two cousins cutting hair and talking shit all day with the wiseguys.”

Tull stared at him. “Really? You want to retire and cut hair?”

“Better than cutting throats for a living.”

It was said as a joke, meant as a joke, but neither of them laughed, and the truth behind Aldo’s words darkened the day.

“If I had a time machine,” said Aldo, “maybe I’d go back and do that instead.”

“And miss out on serving your country?” Tull asked in a voice heavy with irony.

“Serving my country.” Aldo shook his head. “Man … I don’t even think I know what that means.”

They smiled at each other. One of those moments where what they were saying aloud was substantially different than the conversation they were actually having.

Then Aldo stiffened. “Shit—look.”

A bright blue jeep had just rounded the corner of a hangar a hundred yards away, between them and the exit. Even at that distance they could see the white shield on the hood.

“Security patrol.” Aldo looked at his watch. “Somebody screwed up. These jokers aren’t supposed to be here for another half hour.”

“And yet…,” said Tull with mild exasperation. He jerked the door handle and got out, waving to Aldo is stay where he was. “I got this.”

Tull waved at the security patrol. He shoved his hands into his back pocket and began strolling slowly toward the approaching jeep, smiling a broad amiable smile.

The blue jeep rolled to a stop sideways to Tull and about eight feet away. Two uniformed guards stepped out. Aldo rolled down his window to try and hear the conversation. He needn’t have bothered. All he heard was the first guard say, “Is there a prob—?”

Tull stepped forward and from four feet shot them each twice in the head.

It was so fast that Aldo never saw Tull reach for his piece. The two guards lay slumped in their seats and the breeze blew the gun smoke away.

Tull looked from them to the gun in his hand. He sighed, turned and climbed in behind the wheel.

“Okay, brother,” said Tull, “let’s go save the world.”

He put the car in gear and spun the wheel. In seconds the airport was empty and as still as death.

Chapter Forty-two

Over Maryland airspace
Sunday, October 20, 9:55 a.m.

I stared out the window of the helo as we hurtled toward Elk Neck State Park. I don’t like Dr. Hu, but I respect his knowledge. Seeing how badly this stuff rattled him made me depressed and more than a little scared.

As if this was all possible.

As if it was real.

Once the call ended the image on my laptop defaulted to Junie Flynn’s pretty face.

“I hope you have some answers, sister,” I said.

Chapter Forty-three

Dugway Proving Ground
Eighty-five miles southwest of Salt Lake City, Utah
Sunday, October 20, 9:56 a.m.

Colonel Betty Snider touched the lucky coin in her pocket. The face on the coin was nearly worn away from the frequent rubbing of her thumb, a habit Snider fell into when things got dicey. Lately things were more often dicey than not.

There were twelve congressmen seated on bleachers erected under a canvas awning to protect them from getting their congressional brains scrambled in the unforgiving Utah sun’s glare. The rest of the bleachers were crammed with officers of every wattage, from captains on the rise to generals who wanted to catch a last dose of reflected glory before they mothballed their uniforms. And there was a moody little contingent of snooty-looking men in off-the-rack dark suits who perched like a row of pelicans. Defense department bean counters.