Tintagel (28 page)

Suddenly, from overhead beyond the factory in the night sky, the guard heard a terrific roar. A VTOL, very military and very fast, came swooping like a gigantic predatory bird out of nowhere. It made a tumultuous landing on the street in front of White Condor Studios. Leaves, paper, and other debris scattered in all directions in the yellow light cast down by the streetlights. The craft bore the Seal of the President of the United States.

This isn't the National Guard
, the security man realized, frightened.
Something is going on
.…

A door on the side of the aircraft hurriedly cranked open and a dozen soldiers thundered out. They were Marine Rangers, hand-picked African War veterans for the President's own private squad.

After the troops swarmed out of the VTOL, whose engines were screeching down to a lower whine, a man with a briefcase came down the steps, followed by three U.S. Army officers. All were wearing oxygen-assisted filter-masks. Although the man with the briefcase was unarmed, the officers were not.

One of the Rangers ran up to Lanier, ahead of the three army officials.

"We're ready, sir," he said sternly behind his filter-mask.

"The security guard began sweating. Lanier dragged him out from the shadows. Two other VTOLs dropped out of the sky. These were transports: more soldiers were inside.

"Now listen to me," Lanier said to the security guard. "We've shut down all communications within a two-mile radius of these studios. We've also jammed the airwaves, cut all cables. No calls can come in or go out. You're going to let us inside very peacefully and very willingly, or we'll blow the whole front side of the building down into Pasadena. The decision is yours."

The guard was staring into the eyes behind Lanier's goggles. Brown, flecked with dancing lights: calm, sure, powerful. He
would
blow the building if he had to. And perhaps with him in it.

From the two VTOLs that had just landed, infantry soldiers were disgorged. A battery of guns from the VTOLs trained themselves on the building.

The security guard nervously stepped over to the glass booth and pressed several buttons and punched in computer lock codes. Ten automatic rifles and a number of handguns were trained on him.

The steel doors hummed apart and the assault troops rushed inside. Lanier followed them up the steps. He gestured to the three United States Army officers. They ran up to him, almost grateful for some action. Lanier pulled out the map.

"This is where the computer said it should be, Colonel. It's probably well guarded, or it just might be so inconspicuous that it could be out in the open. In either case"—he stared through the goggles of his filter-mask—"be careful. If they destroy it before we can get to it, the whole operation is off."

The Colonel nodded, pulling down his radio helmet. "That's what we're here for. Don't worry about a thing."

Lanier pulled the guard after him. He signaled two Rangers over, said to them: "This man is yours. He moves, give him a haircut."

Standing in the open door, Lanier waved to the presidential VTOL and the man with the briefcase at the base of the stepladder. A small group alighted from the aircraft. Meanwhile, soldiers stationed themselves about the grounds, running off into the darkness, digging in behind trees.

A man—a large man—with a full head of red hair came up to Lanier, drawing behind him a diminutive blonde. Both wore filter-masks, and they both intimidated the security guard who stood with his back against the wall, flanked by the two husky soldiers.

And behind everyone else came a slender woman and the man who carried the briefcase. They, too, wore filter-masks against the rank Los Angeles air.

The security guard was startled. It was the President.
Jesus Christ
! he thought.

Lanier held his Malachi, now loaded with a clip of bullets and not the harmless anesthetic needles.

"No funny stuff, bucko," he said. He tore off the guard's mask.

The President came up the steps to the studio, followed by Ken Collins. Charlie Gilbert and Christy let them pass inside.

Katie turned to Lanier.

"We've got to pull this off quickly. Albertson may or may not get wind of this, but I want this thing done right. He's got enough on his mind if he's taking over the country tomorrow."

Eyes of steel
. The guard stared at Katie, uncomprehending as to what was happening. Everyone was ignoring him but the two guards, one on either side of him.

"We don't want him doing anything stupid," Katie concluded.

"He's already done a few stupid things," Lanier said underneath his filter-mask. "But we won't quibble."

Katie turned to the soldiers. "We start taking prisoners with this one here. Let's get inside and get this thing over with."

She looked back at Lanier.

"I hope that you're right about this," the President said, removing her filter-mask, now that they had entered the building. She immediately lit up a cigarette to calm her nerves.

"So do I," Lanier told her as they walked. He pulled off his filter-mask.

The air inside the factory was sweet and pure. It was completely filtered and processed.

"It'd better work," Lanier then said, as they walked briskly down the corridor. "But I don't see any reason why it shouldn't."

The President turned. Thirty soldiers had followed them into a large reception hall. She pointed to the lone security guard.

"Keep him here. The rest of you, fan out. You've got your instructions."

The warlord
, Lanier thought.

Ahead of them, where the assault troops had penetrated, a small amount of turmoil and racket greeted them as they walked toward the main processing areas. They followed the map Lanier held.

The building was immense. More than a hundred people worked in the manufacturing studio at any one time. And most of the plant was underground. Above ground, it functioned like a fortress.

But Katie had managed to dig up the blueprints to the place through a special presidential code into DataCom, and with the help of Ken Collins, who was pleased and surprised at her return, they managed to keep the entire process a secret.

The Rangers had surprised most of the guards at the various check stations along the way. Those they couldn't take by surprise, they took by force. And the in-house camera surveillance system was no good without the security personnel to back it up. No hidden alarms were tripped.

The soldiers, followed by Lanier and the President, went down a flight of stairs into the first lower level of the plant where they came to the main processing room. Here, movie film was developed and duplicated. The Rangers had by now lined up the factory personnel against one wall.

The President walked into their midst with such an air of authority that everyone's eyes followed her. The lab personnel along the wall couldn't have been more surprised to see her. The Rangers bursting in with their filter-masks on and automatic rifles held out were a hard act to follow. But follow it she did.

Katie Babcock addressed them. "I don't want to hurt anybody. You probably aren't aware of it, but what you are doing is illegal. It's part of a conspiracy."

They looked at one another, their hands still in the air.

The President continued: "And if you
do
know it's illegal, it doesn't really matter. You won't be hurt by these gentlemen, but I'm afraid that you will be spending the night and most of tomorrow in this building."

Lanier marveled at the control she had over the situation. He knew that without her support in this matter, he wouldn't be able to accomplish what he had to do. Only the President could have gotten the plans to the building, being the only one to know the correct codes to DataCom at the Pentagon. And only the President could drum up the muscle to effect the break in without tipping off either Albertson Randell or the Joint Chiefs.

The President of the United States turned to Lanier.

"You know where it is?"

"I wouldn't recognize it if I saw it, but the equipment is surely here." He gestured around him. "In this room somewhere."

He faced the line of workers. "Look," he announced. "You can lower your hands. If you cooperate, no one will be bothered. Now, who among you is the boss?"

A man wearing a stringy, loose tie and an open black vest stepped out of the line, rather belligerently.

"I am. I'm in charge here. What's this all about?"

Lanier motioned him over. "This is an official board of inquiry by the President of the United States. We're here to either bust heads, or make use of the Leander Interphase Translator. We want you to show us where it is, and we want you to show us
now
."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the small man said innocently.

Ken Collins came over and fingered the man. "Look. We know what's going on, and we want the Leander Translator or you're all going to jail. All the films that come out of this place are ingrained with it, and we can prove it. Give it to us or you'll never see the light of day again."

The crew boss suddenly didn't look innocent anymore. Everyone could read it in his eyes.

"I don't know of any …"

Lanier grabbed him and lifted him off the ground by the collar. He threw him against a desk. No one moved to stop him, not the Colonel, not the President.

"Listen, asshole—we'll tear the whole goddamn building down to find it. We know it's here and we've come to get it! You're bucking up against the United States Government. Give us what we want," and he pulled out the Malachi and stuck it in the man's mouth, "or I'll fill your teeth with lead."

The little man squirmed along the top of the desk, turning the color of mushrooms. He said, "OK, OK!", his lips trembling on the mouth of the Malachi. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

He looked back to the other employees in the factory for moral support.
Any
kind of support. They were wide-eyed and just as pale, empty of the will to resist.

Then a soldier ran into the room. He said, "Colonel Johannsen, we've shut down the entire factory. The place is surrounded and all the roads are blocked off. Lieutenants Moore and Melser are on the roof in a ScatterCat. We're secure."

"Good work," the Colonel said. The soldier disappeared back into the outer hall.

Everyone turned back to the little man. The weight of the moment settled about his shoulders. He seemed about to crumple.

"This way," he finally told them. He led everyone down a corridor.

He soldiers continued to hold the workers against the wall. Colonel Johannsen stepped back, allowing everyone to file into the hallway.

"In here," the crew boss said, pointing to a door with a "No Admittance" sign on it. The door was locked with an electronic combination lock.

"Go ahead. Open it," Lanier ordered the man.

"I don't have the combination," he said meekly. "The guy who has it won't be in until the morning."

Lanier turned to the Colonel, who had been carefully watching the proceedings.

"Colonel, you have someone to pick this lock for us? I'd rather not blow it open."

The Colonel nodded. He turned behind him. "Callahan! Over here!"

Callahan shouldered his rifle and ran into the hallway, threading his way through everybody.

"Yes, sir!"

"Can you get through this?"

Callahan walked among them like a kid spying a new toy at the toy store. Nothing mattered but the lock.

"Yes, sir. It's simple."

Ignoring everyone, he set his rifle against the wall. He pulled his pack from his back and laid its contents out on the floor.

He lifted a small gray box, which he put up against the combination lock.

Within seconds the combination appeared in bright red letters on the small screen of the box. He turned to the President.

"We're lucky this time," he said. "It could've just as easily been a voice-coded lock, but it wasn't." He smiled at her.

The door clicked open. Callahan stood up and let them pass inside.

The room was small, containing a complex array of equipment. Screens and computers lined one wall. The computer was presently inoperative. The main object of attention, though, occupied one whole wall opposite the computer. It was a movie screen. And just before the screen was a single-body contour couch. A compact machine stood at the left hand side of the couch, and from it led wires that were attached to a headband and two wrist bands.

Lanier gazed at the small machine. "That's it exactly."

The President turned to him. "How does it work?"

Charlie walked around the couch. Lanier faced him. "You know anything about this."

Charlie nodded. "It's quite simple to operate."

Everyone looked at the Leander Translator as if it had been a cobra, for they knew what it could do.

Charlie said, "It's an awesome weapon. I imagine that the Pentagon would want such a thing under wraps."

"Colonel." Katie turned to the officer, who stood in the doorway. "What do you think?"

The Colonel nodded. "I'm not aware that such a device ever came to our attention."

Charlie said, "It figures."

"So how does it work?"

Charlie pointed to the couch. "Someone, and it really could be just about anyone, lies on that couch and watches the film in question. The film"—he turned around, pointing to the projection booth—"comes from there." He looked back again at Lanier.

Lanier stood at the machine.

Charlie continued: "The individual's emotional responses are then recorded through the Interphase Translator, mastered onto the celluloid, and then the vibrations go out with the soundtrack when it's run through an ordinary projector."

Lanier was lost in thought. He turned to Katie. "It's my guess that the last person who sat here was Ellie Estevan. An actress with her personal power could invoke the proper emotional responses. It would be easy for her." He paused slightly. Everyone watched him. He continued. "Then, whoever controlled the process could magnify the emotional intensity of any given scene. Ten times or a thousand. What I encountered at the Watson Pueblo Theater was tremendous. The vibrations were subtle yet overpowering."