Authors: Douglas Preston
Beneath the renowned thatch of jet-black hair and the bushy eyebrows, the president’s eyes looked sunken, almost bruised. “Dr. Dart,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Dart replied.
The president swept one hand toward a pair of sofas that faced his desk. “Please sit down. I’ll take your report now.”
The door to the room was quietly shut from the outside. Dart took a seat, cleared his throat. He had brought no folder, no set of notes. Everything was burned into his mind.
“We have only three more days until the anticipated attack,” he began. “Washington is as secure as is humanly possible. All resources, agencies, and personnel have been mobilized in this effort. Army checkpoints have been set up on all roads leading in or out of the city. The writ of habeas corpus has, as you know, been temporarily suspended, allowing us to take into custody anyone for almost any reason. A holding and processing facility for detained persons has been erected, on the Potomac just up from the Pentagon.”
“And the evacuation of the civilian population?” the president asked.
“Complete. Those who wouldn’t go have been taken into custody. We’ve had to keep the regional hospitals open, with skeleton staffs, for those patients who simply cannot be moved. But those are few.”
“And the status of the investigation?”
Dart hesitated a moment before replying. This was going to be rough. “Nothing new of importance since my last briefing. Very little progress has been made on identifying the group or where the nuclear device is located. We have not been able to narrow down the actual target—that is, beyond the several already noted.”
“What about the possible threat to other cities? Of the terrorists shifting their target?”
“Again, we have no useful information on other targets, sir.”
The president erupted to his feet, started pacing. “By God, this is unacceptable. What about this terrorist still on the loose? Crew?”
“Unfortunately, Crew continues to evade our men. He escaped into the mountains and my men now have him trapped in a vast wilderness area where at least he can do no harm, where there’s no cell coverage, no roads, no way for him to make contact with the outside world.”
“Yes, but we need him! He could name names, he could name targets! Damn it, man, you people have to find him!”
“We’re deploying massive assets into the search. We’ll find him, Mr. President.”
The president’s slender figure swept from one side of the room to the next, turning briskly as he paced. “Tell me about the nuke itself. What more do we know?”
“The Device Working Group continues to disagree about how to interpret the patterns of radiation, the isotope ratios, the fission products they’ve detected. There are anomalies, it seems.”
“Explain.”
“The terrorists had access to the highest level of engineering expertise—Crew and Chalker were two of Los Alamos’s most knowledgeable experts on nuclear weapons design. The question is how good their
fabrication
of the supposed weapon was. The actual machining of the bomb parts, the assembly, the electronics, is a very, very exacting business. Neither Chalker nor Crew had that kind of engineering expertise. Some in the Device Working Group feel the bomb they made might be so big, it could only be carried around in a car or a van.”
“And you? What do
you
think?”
“I personally believe it’s a suitcase bomb. I believe we have to assume they had engineering expertise beyond Chalker and Crew.”
The president shook his head. “What more can you tell me about it?”
“The two sections of the charge have been well separated and shielded since the accident, as we can’t find any trace of radiation anywhere. Washington is a sprawling city, spread out over a large area. We’re dealing with the proverbial needle in a haystack. The very best assets from local, state, federal, and military resources have been tapped, and we’ve drawn heavily from all the many military bases near Washington. The city, quite literally, is crawling with troops, forming a massive dragnet.”
“I see,” the president said. He thought for a moment. “And what about the idea that all your effort might just cause the terrorists to divert the weapon to a less hardened target? The whole country’s in a state of panic—and rightfully so.”
“Our people have discussed that question at length,” Dart replied. “It’s true that there are many other targets that might prove attractive. But the fact is, all the indications we have are that the terrorists are fixated on Washington. Our experts on the psychology of jihadism tell us the symbolic value of the attack is far more important than numbers of people killed. And that means an attack on America’s capital. I continue to believe myself, quite strongly, that Washington remains their target. Of course, we’re assuming nothing, and assets in every major American city have been activated. But I think it would be a serious,
serious
mistake to draw additional assets from Washington to counter some purely hypothetical risk in another city.”
The president nodded again, more slowly. “Understood. However, I want your people to identify a specific list of iconic targets in other cities and form a plan of protection for each one. Look, the American people have already voted on a list of targets with their feet—so get to work. Show them we mean to protect everything. Not just DC.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“You think with all this, they’ll change the date?” the president asked.
“Anything’s possible. In our favor is the fact that the terrorists don’t know we’ve figured out the date. We’ve managed to keep that secret from the press and the public.”
“And it had better stay secret,” the president said. “Now, is there anything else I should know at the present time?”
“I can’t think of anything, sir.” He glanced at the chief of staff, who remained in the background, imperturbable.
The president stopped pacing and fixed Dart with a tired look. “I’m well aware of the torrent of criticism falling on you and the investigation. They’re beating the hell out of me, too. And in many ways the investigation
is
massive and unwieldy and duplicative. But you and I both know this is the way it has to be; this is the way Washington works, and we can’t change horses in the middle of a race. So carry on. And Dr. Dart, before our next briefing—in fact, as soon as possible—I’d like to hear that you’ve captured Gideon Crew. It seems to me this individual is the key to breaking the investigation.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
By way of dismissal, the president offered Dart a smile—a tense, exhausted smile with neither warmth nor humor in it.
T
HE WILDERNESS ENDED
and Los Alamos began as if someone had drawn a line, the trees suddenly giving way to a typical suburban neighborhood with ranch houses, postage-stamp lawns, play sets and kiddie pools, blacktopped driveways sporting station wagons and mini vans.
From the cover of the fringe of trees, Gideon stared across a dark lawn at one mini van in particular, an old 2000-model Astro. It was eleven o’clock at night, but the house was still dark. Nobody was home. In fact, as he looked around, he noted that almost all the houses were dark; an air of desertion, even desuetude, hung over the place.
“This is making me nervous,” said Alida.
“There’s nobody here. Looks like they’ve all left.”
He walked boldly across the lawn, Alida following a few steps behind. They gained the side of the house and he turned back to her. “Wait here a moment.”
There was no sign of a burglar alarm, and it was the work of two minutes—and long experience—to slip inside and assure himself the house was empty. Finding the master bedroom, he helped himself to a crisp new shirt that almost fit. He combed his hair in the bathroom, then grabbed some fruit and some sodas from the kitchen and went back to where Alida was waiting.
“I hope you’re not too nervous to eat,” he said, handing her an apple and a Coke. She bit ravenously into the apple.
Rising from a crouch, Gideon walked to the breezeway and got into the car. The keys were not in the ignition or the center console. He got out, opened the hood.
“What are you doing?” Alida mumbled through the apple.
“Hot-wiring it.”
“Jesus. Is this another one of your little ‘skills’?”
He closed the hood, got back in the driver’s seat, started dismantling the steering column with a screwdriver he’d found in the glove compartment. A few moments later everything was ready, and with a cough the car started up.
“This is crazy. They’re going to shoot us on sight.”
“Get down on the floor and cover yourself with that blanket.”
Alida got into the backseat and lowered herself out of sight. Without another word, Gideon backed out of the driveway and drove down the street. He soon found himself on Oppenheimer Drive, heading past Trinity, on his way to the Tech Area main gate. The town was deserted, but even this late in the evening, with a nuclear threat hanging over the country, work proceeded at Los Alamos. As they approached the gate, Gideon made out the brilliant sodium lights, the two armed guards in their pillboxes, the cement barriers, the always-friendly security officer.
There was a car ahead of them being checked through. Gideon slowed, stopped, waited. He hoped the guard wouldn’t look at him too closely—his shirt was clean, of course, but his pants were a muddy mess. His heart was pounding like mad in his chest. He told himself that there was no reason for the FBI to publicize his name; no reason to notify Los Alamos security, considering that was the last place he’d go; and every reason to keep his identity secret while they hunted him down.
Then again, what if Alida was right? What if they had put out an APB on him? As soon as he reached the gate they’d nail him. This was crazy. He had a car—he should just turn around and get the hell out of there. He began to panic and threw the car into reverse, getting ready to stomp on the accelerator.
The car ahead went through.
Too late. He eased the car back into drive and pulled up, plucked his Los Alamos ID from around his neck and handed it to the guard…
The guard nodded to him nonchalantly, clearly recognizing him, took it, and went inside. That wasn’t what normally happened. Had the man recognized the car as not belonging to him?
Once again Gideon shifted the car into reverse, his foot hovering over the gas pedal. There was no car in line behind him. If he blasted back out, he might reach the turnoff to the back road to Bandelier before they organized a chase. Then he’d ditch the car at the Indian ruins of Tsankawi and cross the San Ildefonso Indian Reservation on foot.
God, it was taking forever. He should go now, before the alarms went off.
And then the security guard appeared with a smile and the card. “Thanks, Dr. Crew. Here’s your card. Working late, I see.”
Gideon managed a smile. “The grind never stops.”
“Ain’t it the truth.” And the man waved him through.
Gideon parked in the rear of the lot for Tech Area 33, where he worked. It was an enormous, warehouse-like building of white stucco and Pro-Panel. The building housed the offices and labs of part of the Stockpile Stewardship Team, along with access to the underground test chambers and a small linear accelerator for probing aging bomb fuel and other fissile materials.
In the dark of the car, Gideon checked the phony six-gun. It was a replica of an old Colt Model 1877 double-action revolver, nickel-plated, and fully loaded with blanks. Blanks or not, he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
He shoved it into his waistband and covered it with his shirt. “We’re here.”
Alida threw off the blanket and rose. “Is that it? No more security?”
“There are other rings of security but not, at least, to visit an office.” He checked his face in the mirror—not exactly clean, and not exactly shaven. He was known around his department as a slapdash dresser, so he hoped his present disheveled state would not be noted. Most of the physicists, it had to be said, were infamously sloppy; it was sort of a badge of honor.
He got out of the car. They walked through the parking lot and around toward the front of the building.
“Is this Bill Novak you told me about, the network security guy, going to be in?” Alida asked. “It’s after eleven.”
“Probably not. But there’s always someone in the security office. Tonight it’ll probably be Warren Chu. At least I hope so. He’s not likely to give us much trouble.”
They entered the building. An L-shaped hall ran through the front section; the labs were in the back and below ground. Gideon walked slowly, working on his breathing, trying to stay calm. He turned the corner and came to a closed door, knocked.
“Yeah?” came a muffled voice from inside. The door opened. Chu stood there, a round, smooth fellow with glasses and a cheerful expression. “Hey, Gideon. Where you been?”
“Vacation.” He turned. “This is Alida—she’s new. I’m showing her around.”
The round face turned to Alida and the smile broadened. “Welcome to Mars, Earthling.”
Gideon let his own expression turn serious. “Can I come in?”
“Sure. Is there a problem?”
“Yeah. A big one.”
Chu’s face fell as Gideon stepped aside. They walked into his tiny, windowless office. Chu swept the only extra chair clear, eyeing Gideon’s muddy pants but not commenting on them. Alida sat down, Gideon stood. He smelled coffee and spied a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. He was suddenly starving.
“You mind?” He sidled up to the box, tipping it open.
“Be my guest.”
Gideon took a glazed cruller and a New York cheesecake. He caught Alida’s glance and took another two for her. He stuffed the cruller into his face.
“So what’s up?” Chu looked annoyed at seeing four of his donuts vanish so quickly.
Gideon swallowed with effort, wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “It seems somebody used my computer while I was on vacation. Hacked into it. I don’t know how they bypassed my password, but they did. I want to know who.”
Chu’s face paled and he lowered his voice. “Jesus, Gideon, you know you’ve got to report that through proper channels. You can’t come here. I’m just the tech guy.”