Extinction Machine (45 page)

“Nothing from Church?”

“Nothing.”

I reminded her that Junie Flynn had the entire Black Book in her head, so in a way we had possession of it.

“We need to broadcast this on the frequency they gave us in the videos. We have to let them know that they can stop the countdown.”

“What’s your plan, Ledger? To hand over the woman?”

“Well, no … maybe they only need information from the book and…”

It sounded lame. It
was
lame. Auntie mumbled something about giving it a try, but we knew that this wasn’t going to save the East Coast. Whoever took the president surely wanted the
actual
Black Book. Which we did not have and were no closer to having than we were this morning. Maybe less so. Without Church, without my whole staff at the Warehouse. Maybe we were nowhere at all.

Auntie ended the call quickly.

Top parked a haunch on the porch rail. “How are you doing?”

I started to snarl at him, to tell him what an incredibly stupid question that was, and then I caught the look on his face. Not a noncom’s look. Not a fellow soldier’s look. It was a father’s look. Grave, aware, composed.

I closed my eyes, exhaling a big lungful of air, feeling the aches in muscle and soul, feeling the weariness that was burning like a plague through my body.

“I don’t know how I feel, Top,” I said after a while. “If Rudy was there … then I lost the best friend I ever had. And everyone at the Warehouse. I—can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I can see that.”

Again I almost barked at him, but he shook his head.

“If this was the regular army, Cap’n,” he said, “you’d be able to tell me to shut the fuck up. If we were just friends, you could do that. But this is the DMS and I’m your topkick and we’re at war. We don’t get to be like regular folks. We waived that right when we joined.”

I looked at him.

“You’re in shock,” he said. “You came straight out of a combat situation into a deep personal loss. You barely said two words on the flight here. You never introduced Miss Flynn to anyone, and most of the time you sat and stared into the middle distance.”

“I lost friends down there, damn it.”

Top got up, pulled a chair over, and sat down in front of me.

“Yeah, you lost friends down there. So did I. So did Bunny and Lydia. Even the new guys had friends down there. The pilot, Jerry, he had friends down there. But here’s the news, Cap’n, you don’t own the pink slip on grief. We’re all in this together. We’re all in it right now. You know what everyone else was doing while we were flying over here? They were watching you. They were looking to you. You are the captain. You are the leader of the team, and more than that, you are the DMS for them. Mr. Church might be dead and gone. Rudy, too, and Gus and a lot of other people who were higher on the ladder than this bunch of shooters. So, they look to you.” Top gave a soft snort, almost a sigh. “The bad news is that you don’t get the luxury of falling apart and you don’t get to let this kick your ass. Those soldiers in there have probably never been more scared than they are right now. They need to see you nut up and stand up and yell ‘fuck you’ to the gods of war.”

I stared at him.

“’Cause the war isn’t over,” he said, then he stood up and walked away.

Chapter Ninety

House of Jack Ledger
Near Robinwood, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 4:59 p.m.

Before I went inside, I used my cell to make a call. I reached Gunnery Sergeant Brick Anderson at the Shop.

“Cap Ledger!” he cried. “Sweet Jesus I thought you were dead. Holy mother of—”

“Listen, Brick, we don’t have much time,” I cut in. “First, have you heard from anyone who was at the Warehouse?”

“Gus Dietrich called me a couple minutes before the place blew, said that Dr. Sanchez and the big man were on their way over—but they never got here.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but didn’t interrupt.

“Gus sent over all the updated files, though,” said Brick. “There’s stuff coded for you. Want me to send it?”

“Yes,” I growled. “And right goddamn now. I’m running blind here.”

“Sending it now. What else can I do?”

“I need Black Bess and at least one other vehicle. I need them loaded with everything you can squeeze in, including a MindReader substation. And I need all of it right now. I’m about an hour and a half from you, up in Robinwood.”

I gave him the address.

“Give me ten minutes and then we’re on the road.” Brick Anderson was a good man who’d lost a leg in combat.

“Brick, this is getting messy out here, so you don’t have to bring it yourself.”

He hung up on me.

I put the cell back into my pocket and went inside.

They were all in the kitchen, seated around the big table. There was a lot of food on the table but it didn’t look like anyone was eating. Junie stood apart, leaning against the counter near a Mr. Coffee that was brewing a fresh pot. No one was looking at anybody, except Top and Junie, who were both looking at me.

“Coffee will be ready soon,” she said, then she cleared her throat. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” I said. “You’re welcome to stay, but I have to talk to my team. Then they’re going to need to hear what you have to say.”

She nodded and pulled a stool over next to the counter and sat on it. Top turned a chair backward and sat down at the far end of the table. I stood by the door.

“We haven’t lost,” I said.

It took a moment, and one by one they glanced up at me.

“It feels like it. It feels like we got our asses kicked. We lost Hector, Red, and Slick, and that was bad. That would have been the worst day of the week for us. I wish I could say that it would have been the worst day this month, but that wasn’t true even before the bomb.”

No nods, but they were looking at me.

“We don’t know who we’re at war with. Not exactly. Maybe it’s Majestic Three. Maybe it’s someone else. Or maybe we’re caught in the middle of something. But no matter how it swings, we’re at war.”

A few nods.

“People die in war. Sucks to say it, sucks worse to mean it, but people die. Friends die. Family dies. And what really sucks is that this is worse than we think.”

Bunny looked up at that. “Worse?” he asked. “Excuse me, boss, but how the fuck can it be worse?”

I told them about Dugway and the dogfight in the Taiwan Strait.

It was Junie who broke the silence. “Wait—Joe, tell me that part again. About what the craft looked like.”

I described it exactly as Aunt Sallie had described it to me.

“A black triangle,” she said, nodding. Then for the benefit of the others she explained, “They call it a T-craft. Most of the really reliable UFO sightings don’t describe a flying saucer—what they see is a T-craft just like this. That’s the kind of craft M3 and groups in other countries have been scavenging. When President Truman initiated the Majestic Program, that’s the kind of ship he wanted them to either repair or make. The T-craft is powered by a special engine, either one made from original parts or a facsimile—a Truman Engine.”

“What are you saying, miss?” asked Sam Imura. “Are these ships aliens? Or are they ships we’ve built?”

“I don’t know. If they’re alien, then it would be the first time they’ve ever attacked us. If this is something we built—the U.S. or another world power—then it will change everything. War, the arms race … all of that is going to change.”

“Why?” asked Lydia.

“You’re soldiers,” said Junie, “so let me put it in terms you’d understand—having a working T-craft is the equivalent of bringing a nuclear bomb to a knife fight.”

“Bullshit. How the fuck would
you
know?” Lydia’s tone was so sharp that Junie jumped.

But Top snapped his fingers as loud as a gunshot. “Secure that shit, Warbride,” he snapped. “This lady is a civilian advisor and you will treat her with respect.”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” barked Lydia, straightening in her chair. To Junie, she said, “Please excuse my tone, ma’am.”

Junie shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I understand. To you people I’m a nonmilitary UFO freak and probably a severe pain in the ass. I get that, and
I’m
sorry. But Joe and your Mr. Church reached out to me because I understand this stuff. I know about the T-craft and Majestic Three and the secret arms race that’s been going on since 1947. And I want to help.”

Lydia and the others studied her and then one by one their eyes turned toward me.

I placed my cell phone down on the table. “None of us knows exactly what the fuck is going on. But here’s a news flash—each of us knows
something
the others don’t, and Brick Anderson just sent me the case notes from Mr. Church. This is everything that Church and our friends at the Warehouse had been able to put together, right up until they died. This is our field intel. This is what we have to go on. That—and what’s inside Junie Flynn’s head. As of now she is an official liaison to this team and will be afforded every courtesy and access. You think she’s an outsider? Think again. These motherfuckers murdered her parents to try and bury this information. That buys her a ticket to our club. That means everyone here has lost a friend or loved one.” I leaned on the table. “Does that make you mad? Does that make you want to go out and cut some heads? Good—it damn well ought to. It damn well better. But first we need a name. We need to put somebody in the crosshairs. It’s up to us or no one. We go through this material. Everyone works it. Everyone has a voice. I want to hear every theory, every possibility. And once we know who set off that bomb at the Warehouse, then we are going to go after them and show them what hell is really like. Do you hear me?”

Their eyes bored into mine. I saw rage and resentment, anger and bloodlust.

“Hooah,” they snarled.

Lydia stood up, grabbed Junie by the sleeve and pulled her—firmly but gently—over to the table. “If you’re one of us then you’re one of us,” she said.

I saw Top silently mouth the word,
Hooah.

Chapter Ninety-one

The Oval Office, the White House
Sunday, October 20, 5:19 p.m.

Acting president William Collins slammed the door of the Oval Office and wheeled around to glare at Mark Eppenfeld, the attorney general.

“Where do we stand with Ledger and the DMS?”

Eppenfeld stared at him, appalled. “Mr. President … surely this matter can wait until a more appropriate time. The DMS is clearly under attack. America itself appears to be under attack. Between Dugway, the cyber-terrorism, and this terrible, terrible incident in Baltimore…”

“That’s why we need to jump on it. How much more proof do we need that Ledger has gone rogue and is waging a terror campaign against this nation? As soon as we try to execute a warrant to gain access to his office the whole place blows up. Do you want to stand there and tell me that he didn’t rig it to blow if somebody started looking too close?”

“That’s supposition, Mr. President, and I don’t think it’s the next natural link in the chain of logic.”

“And I’m saying it is,” replied the president very sternly. “How many times do I have to say that Ledger is an enemy of the state?”

“Mr. President, the money and stock certificates found at Captain Ledger’s apartment are clean. No fingerprints.”

“So?”

“Does something need to have leaves and sap before we call it a plant?”

The president sneered at him. “Don’t try to get cute, Mark. And let me caution you … some people might find your constant defense of a known terrorist like Joe Ledger to be a matter of some concern.”

Eppenfeld straightened. “Mr. President … are you threatening me? May I remind you that until you relieve me of this office or I choose to resign, I am the attorney general of the United States. Threats made against me are—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mark, get off your high horse,” Collins said quickly. “I’m trying to help you make the right choice here.”

Eppenfeld’s face was a stone. “And what, sir, is the right choice in this matter?”

“The right choice is to prevent this thing from escalating. As long as Joe Ledger—or anyone working with him—has access to MindReader then he will continue to pose a grave threat to national security.”

“I already informed you, Mr. President, that we do not have just cause to confiscate that computer system as it is the personal property of Mr. Church. As his body has not been identified we cannot confirm that he is among the victims of the explosion, and therefore his property rights are in force.”

“No, Mark, you misunderstand me … I’m not saying we should go after the computer. If we can’t touch it, then nobody should be able to touch it. I’m saying that we need to shut the Department of Military Sciences down. Shut it all down, and shut it down right now.” He leaned forward and smiled, then opened a blue folder on his desk. Inside was a document written on official stationery. “Every field office is on property owned outright or leased by the United States. In the interests of national security I am issuing an executive order for that purpose, effective immediately.”

He handed the document to Eppenfeld, who read it through. The AG’s shoulders slowly sagged.

“The DMS is finished, Mark,” said the president. “Done.”

Chapter Ninety-two

House of Jack Ledger
Near Robinwood, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 7:41 p.m.

The October sun was a memory and darkness rose up, immense and absolute. The lingering summer heat vanished, leaving a cold mist that filled the hollows and valleys of northern Maryland.

We downloaded the case files to the laptop and began going through them. Junie sat at the other end of the table, between Top and Lydia, but she kept darting covert glances my way. I only caught them with my peripheral vision and by the time I looked up each time, she’d already looked away or bent over the material again. I wasn’t sure what kind of message she was trying to send me.

One of the first things I found were Rudy Sanchez’s notes from a series of phone calls he’d made to friends of Mr. Church—and friends of their friends. A lot of it confirmed things that Junie had already told me. T-craft. Alien-human hybrids. The Majestic Project. M3. And a long list of suspected members of that mysterious group. I took special note of the names that kept coming up most often. Then I looked at the reports on the cyber-attacks.