The Patrick Bowers Files - 05 - The Queen (53 page)

“We do this,” Cane said into the camera, wrapping up the video, “to show the world that time is running out and that action, swift and decisive, must be taken to assure the survival of our species, the survival of our planet. If a small group of activists can break into and disarm one of the most secure weapons systems in the world, someone else could break in as well and use the weapons to cause apocalyptic harm. There is no sure and certain way to secure nuclear weapons. They must be dismantled. They must be destroyed. The time in human history has come for us to rise above our base instincts of survival and self-preservation and move toward a more peaceful, nuke-free world for the sake of our children and the future of our race.”

Solstice heard the spiel but wasn't really listening to it. Instead, she was thinking about the launch that would occur in just over thirty minutes.

Threats in today's cyberworld aren't often identified until the last minute, so the military's decision cycle of observe-orient-decide-act, or OODA, is infinitely compressed and has to happen almost simultaneously. There are no “T-minus ten . . . nine . . . eight” countdowns, like in the movies. Not these days.

In real life, nuclear weapon launches are immediate and rather anticlimactic things. A couple of keys are turned, a couple of buttons are pressed—a bit of computer code flits through a system—and the silo or submarine door opens and the missile is on its way.

And so, tonight, the ELF signal carrying the launch codes would arrive at the sub, the malware would initiate the launch sequence, and the missile would fire.

Simple.

Immediate.

Irreversible.

Cane concluded his talk, Gale stepped away from the camera, and Solstice assessed the room. “Start up the electromagnetic generator. And get Pickron back down here. Let's send this message of peace to the world.”

8:31 p.m.

29 minutes until the transmission

Passing beneath the hotel, Lien-hua and I found ourselves in a tunnel that reminded me of the abandoned gold mine I'd been in last year on a case in which I'd been chasing a killer in the mountains west of Denver. Eventually I'd stopped him, but not before he tried to bury me alive in the mine.

Not the best memory at the moment.

The air smelled damp and earthy, but the ground underfoot was hard and dry. The windchill outside the hotel had been below zero, but in here the temperature hovered in the midfifties, but because it would be too cumbersome to carry our jackets, we kept them on.

Our flashlights allowed us to see about twenty-five meters. All looked clear.

Given the distance we were from the ELF site in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, I'd never be able to walk the whole way on this ankle. Even if the tunnel went directly to—

“There, Pat, look.” Lien-hua pointed. A narrow-gauge railroad track was just barely visible at the far edge of our light.

I quickened my pace. “That's it.”

As we moved forward, I shared my speculation about Jerusalem being the queen, and Lien-hua listened intently. I could see that the track disappeared around a gentle bend in the tunnel. Still no one in sight. She said to me softly, “I need to know something: did Amber tell you she was planning to leave Sean?”

“She left me a note this morning.”

There has to be a cart or something. There has to be.

“A note.”

“Yes.”

We were beginning to make our way around the tunnel's curve. Still no sign of anyone from Eco-Tech. “She was testing the waters,” Lien-hua observed, “coming to you last night, seeing if there was anything still there, any possibility of making things work with you.”

“There isn't any possibility. You're the one I love. You're the one I want to be with. You believe me, don't you?”

“Honestly, Pat, I do.”

I wasn't certain how this night was going to play out, and I couldn't shake Antón's words that the future is uncertain, that you never know what might happen, that you need to seize the day. So as we approached the tracks, I whispered, “Lien-hua, if for some reason I don't make it out of here tonight, I want you to know—”

“Don't talk like that.”

“Seriously, there's something I was—”

“Pat. Stop.”

“Listen, I know this is a bad time, but I was gonna ask you if—”

“Patrick. You know I don't like talk about finality and failure.” Her words were unequivocal. “Whatever it is, tell me later. When this is over.”

I recalled our conversation at the motel about twists at the end of the story, when everything you thought was true turns out to be a giant house of cards, when hope that seemed guaranteed disappears in a final dramatic plunge.

No, she's right, Pat. This isn't the time. Make it special. Make it right.

“Okay. Later, then,” I consented at last. “When this is over.”

We finished rounding the bend, and I saw what I'd been hoping to find: resting on the track twenty meters away was a small motorized platform built to transport people or supplies.

The railcar was simple—four steel wheels attached to a metal base about two meters square. A handrail rested on narrow supports that skirted the perimeter of the platform. On the left, a control panel sat above a small but powerful-looking motor. Two operating lights hung from the railing, one on the front of the cart, the other on the back, to light the way when traveling in either direction on the track.

Stretching beyond the railcar, the tunnel disappeared in a straight southeasterly direction. “It must go under the Chippewa River,” I muttered.

Lien-hua climbed onto the platform and approached the control panel. “I'll drive.”

I stepped up beside her. “That's good by me.”

It took her only seconds to figure out how to start the motor. When she did, the two electric running lights flicked on and a yellowish glow appeared in front of and behind us.

“How fast do you think this thing can go?” I asked.

“Let's find out.” She throttled forward, and the sound of the motor filled the passageway. It wasn't as loud as I expected, but it was noisy enough that it'd make it difficult to talk during the trip.

Flicking off our flashlights, we both kept our guns out and ready.

And we accelerated toward the ELF station.

Amber had completely stopped crying, and for some reason that made Tessa uneasy. The fire flicked, danced before them.

She believes in God
, Tessa thought,
in forgiveness, in all that.

“So I read some of the Bible tonight,” Tessa said tentatively.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I sorta stole one from the motel.”

“You stole a Bible?”

“Pathetic, huh?”

A slight grin. “Well, I'm sure that's one thing you can be forgiven for.”

“Actually, that's what I was reading about. Forgiveness.”

“Oh, and is that why you mentioned you stole it?” Amber sounded amused, and that heartened Tessa. “To transition to the topic?”

Busted.

“Um. Maybe.”

The fire flickered. Snapped. “What were you reading?”

“A story about this woman who crashed a party where Jesus was eating supper. Everyone thought she was a terrible sinner, I guess, I don't know, a prostitute. And she was weeping on his feet and drying them with her hair.”

“I know it. That's a powerful story.”

“So yeah, and Jesus starts talking about how those who've been forgiven much love much, right? But that those who haven't been forgiven much—or
don't realize
that they have—don't end up expressing much love.”

Amber listened, watched the flames devour the wood Patrick had carried in from the shed.

“Here's the part I don't get. Jesus says that the woman was forgiven because she loved much. But given the context, it should've been the other way around—that she loved much because she'd been forgiven much, because that's what he'd just explained.” She waited to see if Amber would comment. When she didn't, Tessa continued, “So which comes first, forgiveness or love?”

Amber sat for a long time, and the silence unsettled Tessa.

“I'm sorry,” Tessa said. “I mean . . . I wasn't trying to be disrespectful, like questioning the Bible or anything, I just—”

“No, it's okay. Maybe I just need a glass of water.” Amber's voice sounded wavery, uncertain. “I'll be right back.”

She rose.

And returned to the bathroom.

The USS
Louisiana

International waters, Gulf of Oman

“Louisiana full stop,” Captain Reaves said, then heard the ensign echo his command.

He felt the forward momentum of the submarine change, but after twenty-two years at sea it didn't affect his balance at all, and he stared unflinchingly at the emergency action message that had just printed out.

Though it still needed authentication by his executive officer, the EAM was properly formatted.

He studied it silently, picked up the mic. “Lieutenant Commander,” he said, “to the con.”

The reply came back through the intercom. “Aye, sir.”

The message told Reaves to move to DEFCON 1, known in the military as “cocked pistol.” Maximum readiness.

Something big was up. And he and his crew were right in the middle of it.

8:49 p.m.

11 minutes until the transmission

The cool air of the tunnel whipped past my face.

It was hard to calculate the cart's speed, but I would have guessed we were moving at twenty-five, maybe thirty miles per hour, which meant that if it was five miles to the base, we should've arrived by now. Unfortunately, however, I didn't see any indication that we were nearing the end of our route. Instead, all I saw was the perpetual purple-black darkness pressing in against the forward operating light's meager beam.

It's possible this doesn't end at the base. It's possible you were wrong.

No, these tracks have to lead somewhere.

As we traveled, we passed a series of cylindrical nodes buried partway into the earth, placed uniformly about thirty meters apart, all connected by a thick bundle of wires.

The extremely low frequency electromagnetic transmitters.

I reviewed what we knew—or at least what I
thought
we knew: we would arrive at the top level of the station. From there, a stairwell in the east corner accessed the base's second level and another stairwell at the far end of the crew quarters led down to the command level, where the control room would be.

Weatherford had told me there were ten or eleven Eco-Tech members, but of course, it was possible there were more.

What's their agenda? If they're anti-nuke, why try to fire a nuclear missile? Are Cassandra and Terry just using them as pawns?

Even if SWAT or local law enforcement had arrived at the Inn the very moment we'd left it, without another cart on that end of the tunnel, they wouldn't be able to—