The Omega Command (19 page)

“Control of American public opinion?”

“More like control of the entire country. Dolorman and his gang had put him on to something, and all I know for sure is that its origins were connected somehow to the Krayman Chip.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Krayman?”

“About six months before he dropped out of sight, I managed to make contact. He was talking crazy. They were getting close, he said, but it was wrong. All wrong. That’s his phrase, not mine. He said he was going to stop them before it was too late … and then he conveniently disappeared.”

“You’re saying Dolorman and his people killed Krayman?”

“Or kidnapped him and kept him prisoner.”

“But you never told anybody about that or your fears concerning the Krayman Chip.”

“Who was I going to tell, Sandy?” Terrell challenged, frustration mixing with fear in his voice. “Dolorman was running Krayman Industries and he’d inherited all the power that goes with it. There are lots of folks on the Krayman payroll who don’t draw a regular paycheck, if you know what I mean. Randy kept key officials and politicians in his pocket and you can bet Dolorman switched them into his five years ago. The list keeps growing all the time. The little guys they picked up early have grown into big guys by now. With the kind of power Krayman Industries wields, it wouldn’t be beyond them to own a president someday. I didn’t like the odds of going up against that kind of power, not without Randy to back me up.”

“But that didn’t stop you from speculating on what they were up to, did it?”

“I spent lots of sleepless nights. Still do. Coming here didn’t erase the past, it just dulled it a little. Computer electronics have always been my thing, Sandy. That’s what brought Randy and me together in the first place and in the end it was probably what split us apart. The implications of the Krayman Chip were all pretty frightening, but some of them stand out.”

“I’m listening.”

“It gets a little complicated and technical. And the key comes down to changes in society itself. The computer is now the axis around which everything else spins. We’ve become an information-oriented society instead of an industrial one. It would be too trite to call what’s going on now the information revolution, but the ramifications of the changes taking place are not unlike the ones suffered during the industrial revolution.”

“
Suffered
implies pain, Simon.”

“A poor choice of words on my part. The computer has far more good points than bad. It certainly has simplified a lot of lives and a lot of businesses. Like I said, though, times are changing. It’s not so much a question of data processing anymore as data transmissions. The whole national power grid is controlled by computers talking to other computers.”

“Hollins mentioned something like that,” Sandy told him. “He said the Krayman Chip allowed them to do it faster.”

“A lot more than just faster, a hell of a lot more. If you wanted to control the country, telecommunications would be the best way to go about it. Stop the computers from talking to one another or make them say what you want.”

“Through the Krayman Chip?”

“Well,” said Terrell, “if there was a way to shut all of them down at once, the whole nation would be brought to a standstill.”

Sandy’s hair ruffled in the breeze. A number of children were sitting just out of earshot now, watching them.

“But what about all the communications satellites orbiting thousands of miles above ground?” she asked him. “I’ve heard they may make land-based forms of communications obsolete someday.”

“An insightful observation, but not an altogether accurate one. To begin with, yes, com-sats do play an increasing role. Before their signal can be beamed to various sub-stations, though, it first has to be relayed up to them, and that switching process relies predominantly on—”

“The Krayman Chip again,” Sandy completed.

Terrell nodded. “And just for the record, Krayman Industries has four com-sats of their own in orbit as we speak.”

“And maybe something else …”

“What do you mean?”

Sandy spoke softly. “What would you say if I told you I had evidence linking Krayman Industries to the destruction of
Adventurer
last week?”

“What kind of evidence?” Terrell asked, leaning forward.

“A copy of the shuttle’s orbital flight plan delivered to me by a dying Krayman employee.”

“Did you say
dying?
”

“Murdered, more specifically.”

“Oh, God,” Terrell muttered. “It doesn’t make any sense. Destroying a space shuttle; no, that doesn’t fit.” He looked down, then up again. “Unless
Adventurer
saw something or was about to see something it wasn’t supposed to. That would explain why Krayman would be in possession of the orbital flight plan in the first place. If they put something in the sky, they’d want to know if the shuttle’s path would eventually intersect with it.”

“Wait a minute, how would Krayman get whatever it is
up
in the sky?”

“The same way they got their com-sats up, by contracting for a launch.”

“Through NASA?”

“In this case, more likely overseas, through France probably. They’d want a minimum of questions and the French ask none so long as all accounts are paid on time.”

“But what have they got up there that could destroy a space shuttle?”

Terrell’s face paled, his thoughts elsewhere. “Christ, this explains it. …”

“Explains what?”

“The
Pegasus
launching.”

“Simon, what are you talking about?”

He looked at her intensely. “An armed shuttle scheduled to be launched the day after Christmas.”

“Armed? That program was outlawed by Congress.”

“No program the military wants badly enough is ever outlawed. The funds are just redirected. In
Pegasus
they have a whole new generation shuttle complete with deflector shields, advanced radar technology, and a pair of laser cannons that can cut through steel two yards thick.” Terrell’s stare tilted to the sky. “And it’s being sent up there after whatever destroyed
Adventurer.
”

“How do you know all this?”

Terrell sighed. “I can’t leave all my old life behind me, Sandy. I still care about emerging technology. I know the proper numbers to dial, and just yesterday one of those numbers yielded me the information about
Pegasus.
”

“But you have no idea what it’ll be facing up there.”

“Or what the thing was launched for in the first place. Com-sats orbit at around twenty thousand miles, but
Adventurer’s
orbit would have placed it at only one eighty. From that altitude there’s not a hell of a lot you can do.”

“Apparently there’s enough,” Sandy said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas where I might fill in the missing pieces.”

“Just one—Houston.”

“NASA?”

“And Krayman Industries’ corporate headquarters.”

“How convenient,” Sandy managed halfheartedly.

Dolorman leaned painfully forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Will you repeat that, Wells?”

“The man posing as a reporter at Sahhan’s reception was Blaine McCracken.”

“McCracken’s dead. We received positive confirmation of that.”

“I wasn’t convinced then, and now I’m certain he’s alive. There was an incident following the reception that fits McCracken’s style.”

“What sort of incident?”

“The middleman Krell disappeared and his bodyguards were killed.”

“Even so, a certain ‘style’ is hardly the basis for such a conclusion on your part,” noted Dolorman.

“I’m also going by descriptions from the scene of the reception,” Wells told him. “I said from the beginning that Scola wasn’t capable of dealing with McCracken, and I stick to my claim.”

“What is it between the two of you, Wells?” Dolorman asked. “What happened back there in Vietnam?”

“I’ve got a debt I owe him,” was all the big man said.

Dolorman’s expression wavered. “If you’re right, Wells, all of Omega might be in danger. With only seventy-two hours until activation, we can’t have that.”

“We’re going about this in the wrong way, I think,” Verasco interjected. “If McCracken is still alive, we must assume he is still working for Andrew Stimson and the Gap. It would seem a much simpler matter to get rid of Stimson.”

Dolorman turned the scarred man’s way. “Wells?”

Wells’s one working eyebrow rose. “Leave it to me.”

“I have already left to you the elimination of security leaks, and little has been accomplished in that regard.”

“My people are closing on the source now. A break-through should come at any time.”

“See that it does. The fewer complications we face in the coming days, the better.”

“I assume, then, that the order to leave Sandy Lister alive remains in force.”

Dolorman nodded. “We are better off letting her follow a path that can ultimately lead nowhere.” He turned gingerly toward Verasco. “I’m more concerned about Sahhan. Did that unpleasant business at the reception unsettle him?”

“If anything,” said Verasco, “he is more charged than ever. Our people close to him say he is working himself into a frenzy. He can barely sleep at night. Apparently Christmas Eve can’t come fast enough for him.”

“Or us,” added Dolorman.

Chapter 16

MCCRACKEN REACHED PARIS
late Saturday and immediately set the wheels in motion for locating the world’s most celebrated arms dealer, François Deveraux. Deveraux held the unique distinction of being the only arms dealer ever profiled by a major American television newsmagazine that had set out to break the stereotype of the dark-eyed man selling stolen rifles out of a warehouse. Indeed, most of what Deveraux did was both respectable and totally legal. The great majority of his business arrangements were made with legitimate military or paramilitary groups who wanted American- or Russian-made arms and, who, for whatever reason, chose not to deal direct. His equipment was often surplus and frequently secondhand. Deveraux made no secret of his profession and chose his clients with as much caution and discretion as he could afford.

Blaine knew the arms dealer quite well, in fact had saved his life once a decade or so back when a group of fanatical Arab terrorists were upset after Deveraux backed out of a deal with them. Blaine had stepped in and handled the hit team personally. The credit went to the Israelis.

So Deveraux owed him and that should make the situation infinitely simpler, though that didn’t make Blaine any fonder of the prospect of returning to Paris. He had spent by far the worst five years of his career stationed there, frustration simmering until it had boiled over at the airport barely a week before. The smell of Orly Airport itself brought back all the bitterness of those years, all the anger over the fact that his own people had buried him.

Blaine checked into a hotel, made a series of phone calls, and then waited in the darkness flirting with sleep. It was morning before he learned that not only was François Deveraux in town, he would be attending a special performance at the famed Paris opera house that very evening. Deveraux would be sitting in his private box and Blaine would let him enjoy the first act before making his appearance. It was a tremendous stroke of luck actually, for if Deveraux had been out of town or otherwise indisposed, precious time would have been lost getting to see him.

The opera setup presented McCracken with only one problem—dress was strictly formal, at least if he wanted to move comfortably in Deveraux’s circles and not stand out. Blaine rang up the hotel concierge, who sent up a tailor to take his measurements. A rented tuxedo in the proper size would be delivered to his door by six that evening, no small accomplishment on a Sunday.

The worst thing about life in the field was the waiting. And the worst thing about waiting was that it gave you time to think. All of Blaine’s thoughts as he lingered in his hotel room throughout the day centered around Luther Krell. He should have killed him. Plain and simple. It was the expected thing to do and the right thing, too, since Krell could have blown his dead man’s cover. Sure he could tell himself that after talking, the fat man would never dare return to Sahhan, that he was as good as dead anyway. But it didn’t wash. McCracken couldn’t do the job because he didn’t have the stomach for such execution-style killings anymore. Killing in self-defense or the defense of others was one thing; putting a bullet in a whimpering lump of flesh, something else again. It implied vulnerability. Five years ago there would have been no doubt, no hesitation, and Blaine trembled at the thought of where that hesitation might show up next.

His tuxedo was delivered thirty minutes late, at half past six, which left him just enough time to dress and make it to the opera house prior to the start of the first act. Most disquieting was that he lacked a firearm. Smuggling in or obtaining a gun had proven impossible; there was too much risk involved. Blaine felt naked as a result. He took a cab to the opera house. His ticket was being held at the box office, so there was really no reason for him to rush except that he needed time to spot Deveraux’s private box.

The Paris opera house was a huge building constructed nearly two hundred years before. Though remodeled numerous times in the interim, it nonetheless retained the elegant decor of its birth. The lobby of the building was huge, with a swirling staircase rising through the various levels. People in formal attire clustered in small groups to chat and sip champagne. Blaine hoped he might find Deveraux mingling among them, in which case he could finish their rendezvous early and spare himself sitting through the opera’s first act.

No such luck. The arms dealer was nowhere to be found and Blaine found his own seat five minutes before the lights were dimmed. His eyes swept the rows of private boxes above him, some set back so far that their occupants were hidden. He borrowed a pair of opera glasses from a hefty woman seated next to him and intensified his sweep, aware that once the house lights were turned down, he would have to break the search off. The orchestra had finished tuning their instruments. He had only seconds left.