Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (16 page)

“Did that poor boy get out first?”

“No, sir. His ejection seat was inoperable.”

“Thank you, Admiral Mariano; thank you, Danny, appreciate your help. That will be all.”

Once the door had closed, the president said, “I’d say this crisis just escalated, if that isn’t too much of an understatement for you.”

“It’s insane, Mr. President,” Anson Beard, the secretary of defense, said, squeezing his temples with his forefingers. “Just insane.”

“Not an ‘it,’ Anson, but a ‘who.’ Who the hell has amassed this kind of power? Hell, you could bring the whole damn world crashing down with something like this. We’re going to spend the rest of this flight lighting up the secure phones; how many we have on board, twenty-eight or so? I want everyone notified immediately, Defense, NSA, CIA, FBI, the Joint Chiefs, everybody. We got a war on our hands. I’m not so sure we don’t have a world war on our hands.”

Twenty-two

Palo Alto, California

A
s soon as the funeral service for Dr. Cohen was over, CIA director Brick Kelly approached the president and said he needed to go for a long walk. He had a few hours to kill before Angel was wheels-up again. Her next stop was Los Alamos, for an emergency presidential briefing on the AI research being done there. Los Alamos scientists had been working feverishly to prevent some kind of cyberattack on the facility. It was the lead scientist’s contention that only AI-level intelligence was capable of launching attacks such as were now occurring against the United States.

Prior to that, the president and the secretary would engage in a parlay with the brass at Travis AFB about what was now being referred to as “the Incident.” At Travis, they’d teleconference with the Joint Chiefs and discuss the implications of the near-disastrous attack on Air Force One, coupled with the sinking in the Caribbean.

Besides, Brick thought, the rolling, wooded hills of the cemetery perfectly suited his mood. A cold, wet fog had rolled in from the bay during the service, like an Irish mist.
Perfect atmosphere to do some much-needed thinking,
he thought, strolling through a garden of chiseled and sculpted stone.

Under the dripping trees, a long line of black cars was beginning to move down the winding lane. The saga of America’s most brilliant scientist was now officially laid to rest. Brick shivered, suddenly very cold, and he wrapped his raincoat tightly around himself.

Cohen was gone. Inexplicable. He’d talked to the man via telephone just a few short weeks ago. Found him brimming with optimism and energy. Telling his same jokes, funny still despite years of repetition. And excited about a recent breakthrough in his AI research. Something, he’d told Brick, that would “change everything.”

His death constituted a huge loss for the American military, defense, and intelligence communities. Brick knew the DOD had been counting on him to make the huge AI advances needed to give the United States a leg up on the warfare of the future. Neo-War, Cohen had called it. Now? In what had become a blinding glimpse of the obvious, the United States had not only failed to surge ahead, but, judging by recent frightening events, they’d clearly fallen woefully behind.

But behind
who
? That was the question.

He found a stone bench at the base of a great sequoia that was reasonably dry, raised his umbrella against the
drip-drip-drip,
and sat down. He expelled a sigh that hung in the damp air before his face like a small cloud. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since the service. California weather, he remembered it well. But, he reminded himself, he wasn’t here to think about the goddamn weather. He was here to think about the survival of his country.

Brick Kelly was a lanky Virginian, too old to be the “whiz kid” he’d once been in Washington, but still considered relatively young blood around town. As he aged, his reddish hair flecked with grey, he was acquiring a “Jeffersonian” demeanor that suited him well. He was more at home among his books than out “pressing the flesh,” and he’d brought much-needed respect to the once-troubled CIA. He’d worried about how he’d fit with the new president, but he and McCloskey seemed to have meshed seamlessly.

Brick spoke softly and let the president wield the big stick.

These were hard times for everyone in the White House and in government. He couldn’t remember a time in his career when he’d felt so helpless in the face of the country’s many enemies. Now, a faceless, unnamable enemy seemed to have leapfrogged ahead in the ways war worked in the twenty-first century. Hell, in the ways the
world
worked. If you suddenly possessed the power to seize control of anything,
anything,
and bend it to your will, then all the warships and warplanes and nuclear warheads were rendered irrelevant. Useless.

How do you fight an enemy like that?

He composed himself, clearing the decks, giving his mind a little breathing room.

There was only one way, and the insight was so obvious Brick almost laughed out loud at his own thickheadedness.

You put your very best and brightest people together and you focused on the who, what, and where. Not to mention the how. Who had this new power? What was this new power and how did it work? And where the hell was it sourced from? Answer those questions correctly and you had a fighting chance of surviving this nightmare to fight another day. Hell, he felt better already.

A small, white-haired woman in black approached tentatively from his right. He’d seen her grieving at the graveside, throwing a spray of flowers onto the lowered casket, her frail, sorrowful shoulders heaving beneath the long black coat, her face a portrait of unbearable loss.

It was Dr. Cohen’s widow.

“May I sit down, Mr. Kelly?”

“Of course, Stella. Let me move over. You used to call me ‘Brick,’ remember?”

“Yes. Brick. That’s right. Thank you so much for coming all this way. You and the president and his wife. It would have meant so much to Waldo. He believed in you all, you know, Washington. Not so keen about some of the gentlemen who’ve passed through the White House of late. But he believed in
us,
do you know what I mean? All of us together. Americans.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“I’m supposed to be home now, receiving guests bearing casseroles. I just couldn’t do it. I happened to see you sitting over here—I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course, not, Stella. I’m glad we have this chance to—”

“He didn’t kill himself, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It wasn’t a suicide, like they’re saying. No, my Waldo was murdered, sure as I’m sitting here.”

“Stella, you don’t—”

“I told this to the local police. They said they’d look into it. But I could see the look on their faces. They think I’m just a crazy old woman who can’t face reality. So when I saw you just sitting up here all alone on this hill, I thought, well, if there’s anyone in the world who might listen to me, God parked him under that tree.”

“Tell me, Stella. Tell me why you think Waldo was murdered.”

“Oh, I’ve no idea
why
he was murdered. He didn’t have an enemy in this world. But I do have an idea
how
he was murdered. That’s why the police think I’m crazy.”

“How? How was your husband murdered?”

“He was . . . hypnotized. Put in some kind of a trance, I don’t know what else to call it. Here, let me show you something.”

She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and withdrew some object, her fingers closed around it tightly so that he couldn’t see what it was.

“Ready?” she said.

“Ready.”

She opened her hand to reveal a stunning piece of jewelry. It was a shimmering golden butterfly, perfect in every detail, perched on her palm. “Watch this,” she said, and gently stroked the folded wingtips. The gossamer wings slowly opened and began to move. And suddenly the butterfly lit off, darting this way and that before heading up into the branches overhead.

Stella closed her hand and put it back into the pocket of her raincoat.

Brick stared up in openmouthed wonder.

“Stella, what on earth?”

“Waldo made that for me. His gift. For our fiftieth wedding anniversary. He gave it to me just after we finished dinner. I cooked his favorite thing. Roast leg of lamb. Beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“Unbelievable. Stella, it
flies
. . .”

“That’s Waldo for you. Wouldn’t give a girl just any old ordinary piece of jewelry, now, would he?”

“But—”

“Let me finish my story. It won’t take long. He gave me the butterfly and after dinner we were in the kitchen, doing the dishes together like we always did, talking about our upcoming trip to Capri and how much we loved that island. That’s when the telephone rang in his study. He went in there to take the call. I heard him say hello but heard nothing after that. I got curious and went to check on him. He was just standing there, with the phone to his ear. When he saw me, he hung up and said he was going to walk the dog and for me to go on up to bed. I knew something was wrong. It was in his eyes. The way he spoke. The way he moved. I asked if he was all right and he said, oh, fine, you know. But he wasn’t. I asked him who it was on the phone. He said nobody. Just music. Really beautiful music. Heavenly, he called it. Transcendent, lovelier than Pachelbel’s Canon. And then he went and got his coat from the closet, put Feynman on his leash, and walked out the front door. And he never—he never came back, Brick. He never came back to me.”

He let her weep, putting his arm around her shivering shoulders and pulling her close to him.

Sobbing, she said, “Do you believe me, Brick? Am I just a crazy old woman?”

“I do believe you, Stella. I believe every word you’ve just said. And I will find whoever did this to your husband, I swear to you. No matter what it takes, I’ll find them and try to bring you some peace. It’s the least this country can do after all Waldo did for us.”

Stella withdrew her hand from her pocket once more and held it out, her empty palm up. The golden butterfly appeared, darting down from somewhere in the high branches above and alighted upon her outstretched hand. It settled, folded its wings, and she carefully put it back inside her pocket. She withdrew her hand once more and placed a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

“What’s this?” Kelly asked.

“Just after I found Waldo’s body, I ran to the lab to call for an ambulance. I found a name he’d scribbled on a notepad by the phone. He noted the time, you’ll see. He wrote 7:47
P.M.
, just before he came up to dinner. And that equation below has to do with the impossibility of surpassing the speed of light, by the way.”

“Thank you, Stella. It’s a good start.”

“Thank you, Brick,” she said, getting slowly to her feet. “I knew the instant I saw you standing by the grave that they’d sent me the right one.”

She turned and walked away down the hill, a black smudge of watercolor that eventually seeped into the grey mist and disappeared.

He opened the paper. On it a single scrawled word in Cohen’s hand:
Darius
. And beneath it an equation. Something to do with the speed of light. Brick got to his feet, stretching his long limbs. He knew what he had to do. First things first.

He needed to assemble his team.

Call C at MI6 in London. Get Alex Hawke on this.

At least he now had a name.

Darius.

Twenty-three

U.S. Missile Defense Agency Launch Site, Fort Greely, Alaska

R
ain was still falling on the corrugated tin roof of the Red Onion saloon. Lightning flashed on and off, and thunder shook the wooden walls. The streets outside were rivers of mud lit by sulfurous yellow arc lights. The Onion was the only place where a man could get a drink in downtown Camp Greely, population 328, including military personnel, their families, and civilians. Whoever coined the phrase “middle of nowhere” coined it right here in Greely. Try to find it on Google Earth. Seriously. Good luck.

Since he was “going underground” at 0600 tomorrow for a forty-eight-hour tour, Lieutenant Colt Portis was in the mood to drink. Portis was a “push-button warrior.” He had command of a group of U.S. Army personnel whose responsibility it was to defend America from an attack by hostile nations. Specifically, an attack utilizing intercontinental ballistic missiles launched from North Korea, Russia, or China.

The good-looking young army lieutenant pushed his empty beer glass across the battered bar and said to the barkeep, “Only if you’re not too busy, Griz.”

“Never too busy for you, General,” the bearded codger in the filthy white apron told the good-looking young army lieutenant. He snatched up his sudsy glass and pulled another pint. Portis turned to his right and spoke to his watch partner and fellow “Guardian of the North,” namely, anyone manning the ABM, or antiballistic missile, base here at Greely.

“Ready to beat feet, Speed?” he asked his friend.

“What?”

“Vamoose. Amscray. Leave?”

“Hold your horses, okay?”

Art Midge, who hailed from Lower Bottom, Kentucky, had only two gears: slow and slower, thus his base nickname “Speed.” The night they’d met, in this very saloon, Speed had said to him, “Know where Lower Bottom, Kentucky, is?”

“Nope,” Colt had said.

“You don’t?”

“Hell, no.”

“Why, damn, Portis, you ought to. Everybody else does. It’s in a little holler just down the mountain from Upper Bottom.”

“Makes sense,” Colt said, trying not to laugh just in case Speed was being serious.

The rangy youngster was currently busy leaning over the bar, peering deeply into the half-empty bottle of tequila sitting in front of him, as if it held countless untold secrets. Judging by the level of concentration, Portis was half expecting a question on the true meaning of life.

“Why in hell do you s’pose they put a worm inside some brands of tequila anyway? What’s your thought on that?”

“I never thought about it.”

“Well, now I’m asking.”

“Called a
gusano
down in Mexico, where they eat them all the time. Says it makes your dick hard.”

“Yeah? I wouldn’t eat a worm even if it made my dick
bigger
.”

“If I were you I’d eat up then, little buddy.”

“You ain’t me.”

“I got lucky, what can I tell you?”

Portis downed a final shot of tequila and chased it with his last gulp of Moose Drool Brown Ale, a local microbrew. He slid off the stool and punched Speed’s bulging shoulder muscle.

“Last call for alcohol, little buddy of mine. Drink up.”

“You’re leaving? What the hell, Colt? See that little white T-shirt full of balloons over there in the corner?”

“Yeah. Hard to miss.”

“Girl has her eye on you, stud muffin.”

Portis glanced over his shoulder and winked at the girl. Nothing wrong with winking last time he checked. Maybe he was married with a brand-new set of twins, but, goddarn it, he wasn’t dead yet.

“Margie’s already wondering where I am. She’s got supper on the table ’bout now. I’m outta here, Speed. I’ll see you in the
A.M.
before we go down in the hole, all right?”

“Two whole days without liquor, sunlight, or women. Damn.”

“It’s an honor to serve, Speed. Don’t ever forget that.”

Midge saw the look on Portis’s face and decided to keep his wisecrack to himself. Colt was a smart guy, Stanford grad, then Caltech before he signed up. Always reading books about the military and American history and shit. The kind of guy who gave the word
patriot
a good name: an All-American American.

“Give my little Margie a hug for me, buddy, I’ll catch you on the flip side.”

“Later, man.”

T
he Portis family lived in a small two-story, two-bedroom house in the residential section of the camp. Colt liked it because he could walk to work. Margie’d done a great job making the place feel homey, too. For base housing, it was pretty darn good.

Greely’s residential compound, called the Camp, was spread out around the military section, called the Fort. That meant dogs, armed guards, and concertina wire atop a fifteen-foot wall surrounded his little piece of heaven. Walking up his sidewalk, his umbrella blown sideways by the howling wind and rain, he was cheered by the pale golden glow in the windows of home.

He could see his wife silhouetted in the upstairs window, putting the twins down. His little angels, Merry and Anne. Margie’s mother’s name was Mary Anne and they’d planned to name their brand-new baby daughter after her. Then they up and had two, born on Christmas Eve, hence the “Merry.”

He let himself in the front door, went to the bottom of the staircase, and called up to let his wife know he was home.

“Hey, you,” she said five minutes later, walking into the living room. Colt was in his chair, staring into the fire like he always did. “You’re soaked to the bone. I thought you were coming straight home from the gym.”

“Aw, baby, don’t be a grouch. Speed and I are going in the hole in the morning for two whole days. I just needed to blow off a little steam at the Onion, y’know. Sorry I’m late.”

“Well, we can’t have the man who’s got his finger on America’s nuclear trigger building up a head of steam, can we? Nosiree bobtail. Go up and put on some dry clothes. I’ll put supper on the table.”

“Something sure smells good. What are we having?”

“Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and lima beans.”

“My favorite.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.” She turned around and headed for the kitchen, swirling her pleated red plaid skirt, the one that said tonight would be one of their “special” nights. Colt smiled, proud of himself for being mature enough to ignore the pretty little balloon smuggler at the Onion and come straight home to mama. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he might not have done that. But he loved his wife, loved his kids, and he loved his country. Not necessarily in that order.

His late granddad had been Army Air Corps. Flown B-25s over in the Aleutians, an archipelago of three hundred volcanic islands that extended westward from the Alaska Peninsula and marked a line between the Bering Sea and the Gulf of Alaska.

For taking out a forward Japanese naval base, Captain Colt Portis Sr. had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. It hung framed on the wall over Colt’s dresser, beside the Silver Cross and Purple Heart his dad, a West Pointer, had received as a young lieutenant in the First Air Cav during the horrific Battle of Ia Drang in Vietnam.

His gramps had come home from his war. His dad had not. Colt planned on coming home from his.

After dinner, he and Margie checked on the girls and fell into bed. After they made slow, whispery love, she was instantly snoring away, a sound he had come to find very reassuring. It meant the woman he loved was sleeping soundly, and peacefully, and would wake with a smile.

He lay on his back with his hands clasped beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t have any money to speak of, never had, most probably never would. But he felt like the luckiest man in the world.

T
he tunnel entrance was well camouflaged. From the air, or an enemy satellite, it looked like a deserted barracks building. The wide entrance at the rear was disguised by two large boulders. Inside that huge empty building, a two-lane roadway angled sharply downward into the earth to a depth of fifty meters. Silent, electric-powered vehicles, each capable of carrying three men plus a driver, were constantly shuttling in one direction or the other.

Colt and his partner hopped on one and began what Speed always called their “journey to the center of the earth.” They traveled swiftly down a steep but smooth and well-lit incline. Eventually, the eerily silent transport slowed to a stop close to an entrance in the wall of the tunnel. They grabbed their forty-eight-hour kit bags and hopped off. A door slid open and they stepped inside a large elevator, perhaps ten feet square.

Judging by the initial acceleration, Colt had calculated this lift descended at a very rapid rate, maybe a thousand feet or more per minute. The trip was three minutes long, which put his workplace about three thousand feet below the surface of the earth. They emerged into a brilliantly illuminated corridor and followed it to an escalator that took them down to their guard stations.

They swiped their credentials cards and the glass doors hissed open. The two enlisted men currently manning the control panels immediately stood, saluting Portis, an officer, and stepping away from the panel. The senior man, a fresh-scrubbed kid from the Midwest, handed Portis an eight-by-ten metal box that contained records of his just completed six-hour watch, notated by hand, a new concept.

“Watch is yours, Lieutenant Portis,” the senior man said, officially relinquishing his team’s duty to the new men. Colt had to acknowledge responsibility.

“I have the watch. Anything interesting?”

“Must be something going on with one of the primary generators in this sector, sir.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been getting sporadic power surges. Nothing too close to the red zone, but I gave Engineering a heads-up. Looking into it. Other than that, there’s peace in Happy Valley, sir.”

“May it ever be so. See you guys at 0600 Monday, Sergeant. Try not to be late.”

“We’ll be counting the hours, Lieutenant.”

The two men left and the doors slid shut.

The new “Guardians of the North” immediately took their battle stations, two comfortable swivel chairs on wheels with padded armrests. Portis, the ranking officer, was on the right. Four men would rotate in six-hour shifts, the off-duty team using the time for recreation or sleeping or both.

“Don headgear,” Portis ordered, and the two men each picked up one of the “crowns of glory” the departing team had left behind on the console. The army had been looking into ways to make humans more machinelike through the use of stimulants, other drugs, and various devices. Portis had the feeling the earphones were designed to keep you alert through hidden audio signals.

An ABM operator’s life consisted of six straight hours of uninterrupted, mind-numbing tedium. Lacking stimulus, minds wandered. To the brass in Washington in charge of the Missile Defense Agency’s “Operation Vigilant Spirit,” that human flaw represented a threat to national security.

The “crowns” had been designed by army engineers to counter that threat. They were rigged with electrode fingers that rested on the scalp and picked up electric signals generated by the brain. Additional add-ons included devices for constant heart-rate and eye-movement monitoring.

Should a soldier exhibit fatigue, anger, excitement, or become overwhelmed in the event of an attack, signals were sent to a supervisor five levels up who could immediately shift control of the station to another operator. If an operator’s attention waned, he was cued visually and a magnetic or chemical stimulant was fired into his frontal lobe.

In the event of an actual enemy ICBM attack, both men would have to key in matching codes, then insert the keys that hung from chains around their necks and turn them simultaneously. This would initiate the firing sequence.

Arrayed in an enclosed perimeter in the center of Fort Greely were eight THAAD antiballistic missiles in their impregnable silos. The acronym stood for terminal high altitude area defense. Their sole reason for being was to destroy incoming ICBMs detected by the powerful GBR, or ground-based radar. GBR was employed for surveillance at ranges up to a thousand kilometers, target identification, and target tracking. Targeting information was uploaded immediately before launch and updated continuously during the flight.

These ABMs were powered by a single-stage solid-propellant rocket motor with thrust vectoring for exo-atmospheric guidance. The KV (kill vehicle) destroyed the target on contact. THAAD could intercept incoming ballistic missile targets at altitudes up to 125 miles. They were designed to intercept the enemy missiles in outer space, killing them before they even entered the earth’s atmosphere.

The difficulty with intercontinental ballistic missiles is their extremely high velocity. The first view of an incoming ICBM may be as it comes over the horizon. At first contact with the atmosphere it may be traveling at fourteen thousand miles per hour. By the time it reaches its target it will have slowed to seventy-five hundred miles per hour. This leaves the defender with very little time to react and requires extremely quick missiles to intercept, with very good guidance from the GBR.

J
ust after 0900, Colt Portis heard his partner say, “Holy shit! Incoming!”

He looked at the display in front of him in sheer disbelief. Fear
seethed
through his brain like a strong tide surging through a narrow gate.

“You see this, Speed?”

“What the hell?”

“I’ve got eight, I repeat eight, unidentified objects traveling west to east at twenty thousand miles per hour, altitude one hundred miles.”

“Ain’t an ICBM in the whole damn world that fast. Estimate time of atmospheric reentry at nine minutes and counting. GBR plotting their course now . . . fuck me . . . they’re all headed this way!”

“Sir,” Portis said to his watch commander, adjusting his lip mike, “request permission to arm all eight ABM missiles!”

“Request granted. Light ’em up, Lieutenant. Shoot first and apologize later.”

“Hey, wait a second,” Speed said, staring wide-eyed at the rapidly moving dots converging on his screen, “nobody kills me till I say so.”