The Eighth Day (35 page)

The press corps was stunned to silence. After a second, the room erupted in questions. Spence took no questions, exiting the room. Walking at a brisk pace past the guards, she took a shortcut through the White House barbershop. Quietly, she picked up a pair of scissors and slid them under the sleeve of her jacket. She double-stepped down the nine flights of stairs, passed the uniformed guards, and approached the Situation Room. The Secret Service agent at the door questioned her with his glance.

“I need to see the president immediately,” she snapped. He permitted her access. The Secret Service agent on post behind the president watched her approach with a bit less than his usual penetrating stare. It was the glint that first caught his eye. Instantly, the “best of the best” agents in the service reached for his gun. Spence, now thirty feet from the president, pulled out the scissors and held them like a dagger in front of her.

“Freeze,” the agent growled as he chambered a round and aimed in one smooth motion. His menacing stance did not stop Spence’s advance. The other agent, on post across the table on the opposite side of the room, blasted through the chairs and scurried over the slippery top of the conference table in an effort to grab her. The Secretary of Labor, seeing a gun pointed in his direction, bent down to duck as the hurling agent’s leg slammed into his head. The agent stumbled and before he could steady himself for another attempt at her, the first agent fired three times. Although his intention was “shoot to wound,” Spence was shoved a foot to her left by a Cabinet member who went ducking for cover, rendering the shots aimed at her arm and shoulder fatal. Spence’s body spun around from the fusillade. Her teal business suit instantly blossomed red with blood. Multiple exit wounds, the size of silver dollars, punctuated her back.

The president, who first looked up at the sound of the agent going over the table, was now under the weight of a third agent who threw his body over him. The two standing agents immediately scanned the room with the barrels of their guns while ordering the entire Cabinet to get down on the floor. The president was unceremoniously thrown into the anteroom for safety, guarded by two crouching agents, their guns drawn and trained on the entrance to the sit room. The agent who had let Spence in kicked away the scissors from her hand. Reynolds saw that she was, amazingly, still breathing. He went to her and cradled her head.

“Why, Naomi? Why did you do this?”

She was remarkably calm, he thought, as she choked for her last breath and with a puzzled look on her face, uttered, “I don’t know why. I don’t know, but I had to die, Ray.” And then she was gone.

Back in the New Mexican pizza shop, Hiccock’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Ray …What?” As he learned about the press secretary’s attempt to assassinate the president, CNN played her ominous speech to the press corps.

“Was she on the Internet just before?” Hiccock said.

“Dear God. I’ll get right back to you,” Ray said and hung up.

Hiccock turned to the major. “I’m going to make an executive decision here. Since there is nothing to indicate any other secured facility within fifty miles of where we are, I am going to assume we have found the terrorists. It is imperative that we stop them within two hours.” He nodded toward the TV and replay of Spence’s threat.

“I got communications personnel and a few MPs. The hombres at that facility are Ranger School valedictorians, dug in and probably well fortified. If it comes down to a firefight, our guys will be slaughtered.”

“Reinforcements?”

“I can try Fort Carson, but it’s going to be pure luck if they are even mustered in a day, no less in war-fighting mode.”

“Where’s all the RD divisions I hear of in briefings?”

“All our rapid-deployment units face outward, most in other countries. Getting them here is a big-time turnaround … maybe twelve hours.”

“And if this were Kuwait or Saudi Arabia?”

“Two hours.”

The Admiral walked up and interrupted. “I have a suggestion. Is there a phone book?”

The manager produced one and Parks turned to the yellow-page section. She started looking under D for demolition. She found a small display ad and called out the number. Hiccock punched it in and handed her the phone.

“Hello, is Mack there?” the Admiral said and then waited. “Mack, Henrietta Parks, I’m fine but I need your help. You boys still playing with firecrackers?”

Engles was a brute, a mass of muscle and sinew compressed into the presence of a commanding officer. His Air Cav troops were, to the man, the ultimate best. This achievement came in no small part because he made it his duty to be better than any one of them—a better soldier, a better athlete, a better flyer, and a better fighter. On this day, he once again proved alpha male, as he showed them how far they’d have to go to be better than him. Using an OH 58C Bell Ranger reconnaissance helicopter, he snagged three garters in three passes. His next-best pilot snagged two out of three.

It was a game he invented after one of his men returned from a wedding having caught the garter. He challenged him to snag the garter from a hook three feet off the ground using the tip of the strut on the helicopter’s landing rails. Like grabbing the brass ring, only at seventy miles per hour, three feet from the floor, with a margin of error of two feet to death. His Air Cav unit was number one, mostly because of his personal challenges to all of his men.

What Engles had great difficulty flying, however, was his computer. The phone line he commandeered to be his dedicated modem line was faulty when the wind wasn’t blowing, and today the soft Fort Carson, Colorado, breeze was playing havoc with his barely 56 kbs connection to his e-mail. His sister wanted to buy a new Jeep Wrangler and he was trying to enlighten her, by way of a letter, on the merits of getting a heavier suspension. Between constantly being booted and losing his connection, he hadn’t noticed the periods of inaction he had undergone, during the moments when he was hooked up, when he didn’t move or blink.

EMMERTS, ONE OF THE GUARDS at the Alison Industries main gate, was personally amused and professionally curious when he saw the three beat-up Jeep Wagoneers and an old International Scout, with fishing poles and coolers on the bumper, pull right up to the gate. “C’mere, look at this,” he called to Renko.

They watched as two old guys got out of the front vehicle, 140 or so odd years of living between them. As they approached the guard shed, one sucked his dentures and asked, “’Scuse me there, young fella. This here Alison Industries?”

“Yes, but why do you want know?” Emmerts turned and smiled at Renko. A bunch of other old guys started unloading.

Renko hustled over. “No, I’m sorry you can’t stop here, please get back into your vehicles.” One of the guys strayed from the crowd and headed behind the guard shack. Renko followed, and he witnessed him unzipping his pants, preparing to pee. “Sir, don’t do that.” The man didn’t respond and disappeared behind the structure. Renko trotted over to the back of the shack, “What are you, deaf, too?”

“No, son, I ain’t deaf.” Mack’s hand came up with amazing speed as he took the young trooper in a sleeper-hold, a chloroform-soaked rag woven between his fingers smothering the guard’s nose. The startled Renko was totally caught off guard. “Just had to get you out of the range of them cameras. You sleep tight now.”

Meanwhile, Emmerts was still dealing with the other oldster. He didn’t see the dust-covered letters on the Jeep, barely discernible as Mack & Harry Demolition Albuquerque N.M. “You have to move your vehicles.”

“But my grandson said to come stop by anytime and see the place. His name is …” he patted his pockets. “Where is it? Whoops ’sin the back.” He hobbled to the back of the Wagoneer.

Emmerts followed him, “Look, I don’t give a rat’s ass who …” As the guard came round the back of the vehicle, he came face to face with a Beretta Model 92f 9mm semiautomatic with silencer, pointed an inch above the bridge of his nose.

The old guy pushed a soaked rag toward Emmerts’s face. “Take a deep breath or die.”

Emmerts started to deflect and go at him low. Nevertheless, the old codger was surprisingly fast, blocking the younger man’s attempt and reversing the hold.

Another older guy slammed the rag on him. As the guard started gulping chloroform-saturated air, the old guy got in his face. “When you have the nightmare that will follow this little embarrassing scene, don’t forget to give the boys of UDT Unit 1, retired, the credit.”

Two guards were monitoring the entrance in the command center. “What the fuck is going on out there?” one of them said. “Where’s Emmerts and Renko?” They were startled by Mack, one of the old men, who appeared behind them.

“They got bamboozled,” Mack said. “Bye!” Two Tasers got each guard on his shoulder, jolting them out of their seats and onto the floor by the 20,000-volt sting of the handheld weaponized version of cattle-prod technology. Two other older guys ragged them, prompting Mack to comment, “This is too easy.” As if on cue, Mack’s shoulder exploded in a red ball of mush. Mack’s comrades hit the deck rolling and firing back at the source of the shot as alarms began to sound. They aimed low, taking out the shooter from the legs down. When he crumpled, another UDT guy ragged him.

With the first line of defense put to slumber, the septuagenarian fighters and Hiccock’s MPs and communications troops made their way to the main entry door. It was actually a giant vault door, programmed to close automatically upon the alarm. Mack’s friend Charlie and another old Navy grog dashed over to the upper and lower actuating arms that were linked to the motor that closed the doors. They slapped a soft package on each arm as it swung and pushed into it a firing pin connected to a detonator cord. With the skill and light step of dancers, they retreated behind the big door itself and yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

One of them keyed the detonator as the other UDT veterans down the hall ducked. Harry grabbed young Kronos, who was too curious for his own good, and pulled him behind a wall. With the explosion, the metal arms were severed and mangled. The door stopped with a groan. A piece of the arm stuck in the wall, like a javelin, where Kronos’s head had been a moment earlier.

The major’s MPs, in full uniform, were now in the main area. Reinforcement guards from the installation, dressed in paramilitary uniforms, appeared. Both the MPs and the guards yelled “Freeze,” their weapons trained on each other. The standoff came down to the lead guard, code-named Gold, facing the lead MP, the major. There was dead silence.

Then the major spoke, “United States Army. Drop your weapons.” Gold responded, “United States Marines. Drop yours.”

“Oh, shit!” Kronos blurted out, putting a voice to what was on everybody’s mind.

“We are here on direct orders of the Commander in Chief,” the Army major barked.

“You are violating the security of a top-secret installation, Major.”

“Well, it ain’t that secret anymore, pal. In minutes, the 82nd Airborne and First Ranger battalions will be swarming all over this place. Surrender your weapons and your command.”

“Then you shall die with us, Sir.”

Hiccock moved forward. “Wait a minute, fellas.”

The major could not believe the stupidity of Hiccock’s move. “Sir, take cover.”

Hiccock ignored him. “Look, Marine. Do you know who I am?”

“You are an unauthorized person in the facility that I am sworn to protect …”

“… against all enemies foreign and domestic,” Hiccock said. “Yes, I know, I took the same oath. But I work for the president. I have code-word clearance and I am seventeenth on the NCA protocol.” Hiccock saw that his last statement confused the Marine guard. “Let me show you my ID. I am seventeenth in line to the presidency in the event of a decapitating preemptive strike.”

Just then, Professor Robert Parnes swept into the middle of the standoff in a white lab coat with his graying hair and prosthetic arm and demanded, “What is going on here?”

Edmonds, who was wound tight and on edge because of his diet pills, wheeled around and nearly fired at his own boss.

“Sir, please leave now,” Gold said to Parnes. “The security of this immediate area is compromised.”

Hiccock couldn’t believe his eyes. “Parnes? Bob Parnes?”

“Bill Hiccock? What are you doing here?”

“You are running an illegal operation.”

“Afraid not. I am running a top-secret project. I thought you were at the White House. Why are you breaking into my facility?”

“Can we call off the warriors first? All these locked and loaded weapons make me a little nervous.”

Parnes assessed the situation, “What if I do mine but you don’t do yours?”

“Fair enough. Okay, so we do it by the numbers. One of yours stands down then one of mine does.”

Edmonds watched every move the invaders made over the sights of his gun. He was breaking out in a sweat now, cursing his body for trembling under stress.

Upstairs in the command center, Mack was bleeding heavily from the shoulder. Admiral Parks rushed over to him. She examined the damage and made a preliminary diagnosis. “It went clean through. You might not pitch in the majors again, but I don’t think you’ll buy the farm.”

“Henrietta, you go and take care of that science guy. I’ll be okay.”

“Medic!” Parks called out. She caressed the man’s good hand and squeezing it said, “Thank you for getting your old unit together and doing such a fine job.”

“Me and the guys … we never broke up. We just started our own business and kept blowing up things. Heck, this has been the most fun we had since we took down the hotel in Vegas.”

“Still, Mack, I owe you one.”

“Your husband pulled my rump from the drink a few times. This one’s on my tab with him.”

A medic arrived and Parks kissed Mack on the forehead. Then she was off. She ran into Tyler being led down into the facility by one of the MPs.

“Admiral?” Tyler inquired.

“Miss Tyler.”

“How are you doing?”

“My house has been destroyed, my husband’s best friend and war buddy is missing half his shoulder, there is a mad crazy somebody who’s going to make regular Americans blow up our country in forty-five minutes, and if I still got periods this would be the day. But besides that I am fine … except your husband is probably gonna get us all killed.”

“My ex-husband.”

“That seems like a dumb mistake, woman.” She was off, leaving Tyler speechless.

The mutual stand-down continued in the main area, as soldiers on each side alternately received the signal from his respective commanding officer to secure his weapon.

Hiccock continued explaining the situation to Parnes. “So my hacker friend Kronos here traced it back to this facility, which, by the way, does not appear in any government records.”

Not noticed by anyone, Edmonds was sweating as his eyes darted around; chasing flashes of light only he could see.

“Are you accusing somebody here of using my equipment to sabotage the United States?” Parnes said, incredulous.

“Or possibly you, Professor … unfortunately.”

The major gave one of his men the signal and another weapon was secured.

“Me? Why would I …”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because big-ticket research money, the kind that you’re used to, doesn’t fall off the trees unless there’s a real nasty threat to this country.”

“Not me, Bill. I literally gave my right arm for this country.”

“Could still hurt, Parnes. And that could be a good reason to extract revenge. But that’s my wife’s area, actually.”

Another Marine guard got the nod to stand down.

Edmonds’s face was now registering anger.

“Oh, that’s right. You married your old boss at Stanford. Cute, as I remember.”

“You should see her now,” Tyler said as she walked into the chamber with Admiral Parks.

Edmonds’s eyes darted to the new distraction caused by this woman. Slowly his finger moved to the trigger of his aimed and cocked M16, one involuntary spasm away from blowing off Janice’s head.

Hiccock and Tyler both stopped and looked to each other, simultaneously asking, “Are you okay?” Hiccock smiled and returned to Parnes.

The major got the eye of another MP and he too relaxed his stance and lowered his weapon.

“So what are you baking here, Parnes?”

“The next big thing, Bill.”

“Cold fusion?”

Gold nodded his head and another weapon lowered.

Edmonds was now breathing heavily through his mouth.

“AI. The most far-reaching program of R&D on AI ever in the U.S.A.”

“Of course, artificial intelligence. You were always a big-time DARPA guy. I guess this whole place is on the Department of Defense research and development, off-budget shopping list.”

Edmonds started to shake ever so slightly.

“Well, actually, no. My associates and I were asked to leave the Defense Advanced Research and Projects Agency. Unlike you, Bill, I wasn’t able to stay out of the big leagues. So I pitched this idea to the Department of Agriculture, of all places.”

“Agriculture? This top-secret facility is code word cleared for what … ‘farmland security’?”

“Old habit, Bill. There are companies and governments all over the world that would stop at nothing for the technology we are ‘baking’ here.”

An MP behind Hiccock lowered his weapon but the one beside him kept his trained across the room.

“Well, it’s over Parnes. You are shut down.”

Parnes became animated with a newfound emotion. “Bill, we are doing it, right here. The Holy Grail … the ultimate in computational science. We have created true artificial intelligence, Bill. Think of it!” Then suddenly, changing beat, he asked, “Why is your wife here?”

“Ex-wife. She’s here to figure out how you went nuts.”

“Nuts? Bill, we are on the verge of changing everything!”

Hiccock took a deep breath. “And I suppose plotting to destroy the United States is some kind of warm-up to the main event?”

Edmonds now had a terrified look on his face.

“Weather, Bill! We are a meteorological research facility. I don’t know what makes you think we are …”

“Weather? You mean you are running an ultra top-secret, multimillion dollar off-budget black op to determine if the rain is going to hurt the rhubarb?”

“Well, when the Department of Defense dropped us, I had to get my team and myself another high-paying, satisfying research scenario. Breaking down the complexities of weather dynamics is a task only the largest computer ever made could attempt to unravel. Again, why is the former Mrs. Hiccock here?”

A guard safetied his gun as an MP pointed his weapon to the ground and released the bolt. There were only two men left with weapons. One of Hiccock’s MPs and Edmonds.

Tyler decided to speak up. “If what you are saying is true about your mission here, then you or somebody on your team is a serial-homicidal maniac. I intend to conduct a full psychiatric investigation to determine who the culprit might be.”

“After we shut you down,” Hiccock added.

The last MP stood down.

Edmonds swallowed hard. His eyelids were perceptibly fluttering now.

And then a spider crawled out of the uniform and up the neck of the MP standing next to Tyler. The soldier, sensing something just above his collar, reacted with a start, swatting the arachnid from his five o’clock shadow with a slight grunt. A blood-red dot appeared on his forehead as the sound of a shot echoed through the halls of Alison Industries. The back of his head exploded in a puff of red, white, and gray.

Before the soldier’s limp body crumbled to the floor, Edmonds pivoted, quickly acquiring his next target. Bang. An MP, instinctively raising his gun in response to the sound of the shot, was knocked down by the impact of the second gunshot.

“No!” Gold yelled.

The major raised his gun and fired, rippling Edmonds’s chest with bullet holes. He then kicked over a desk and dropped down for cover. Everyone else scrambled. Tyler instinctively reached out for the downed MP. Hiccock jumped across the ten feet between them and immediately covered her and pulled her down behind a desk. Parnes was hustled to the ground by one of his guards who took a bullet in the back for his trouble. The confusion over who was shooting at whom increased. Bullets ripped into everything. Guards and MPs were spun around and blasted back by rounds from the weapons of their adversaries.