Temple (2 page)

Offices of the US Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency
Monday, January 4 1999, 5:50 am
The thieves moved fast—they knew exactly where they were
going.
They'd picked the perfect time for the raid. Ten minutes to six.
Ten minutes before the night guards were due to clock off. Ten
minutes before the day guards were due to clock on.
The night guards would be tired and looking at their watches,
looking forward to going home. They would be at their most
vulnerable.
3701 North Fairfax Drive was an eight-storey redbrick building just
across the street from the Virginia Square Metro station in
Arlington, Virginia. It housed the offices of the Defense Advanced
Research Projects Agency—DARPA—
cutting-edge research and devel6pment arm of the United States
Department of Defense.
The thieves ran down the white-lit corridors with their silenced
MP-5SD submachine guns held high, SEAL-style— their folding stocks
pressed firmly against their shoulders, their eyes looking straight
down their barrels, searching for targets.
Thwat-thwat-thwat-thwat I
A hailstorm of silent bullets ripped down yet another Navy
guardsman, number seventeen. Without missing a beat, the thieves
leapt over his body and headed for the vault room. One of them
swiped the cardkey while another pushed open the huge hydraulic
door.
They were on the third floor of the building, having already
breached seven Grade-5 security checkpoints— checkpoints that had
required four different cardkeys and six different alpha-numeric
codes to open. They had entered the building via its underground
loading dock, inside a van that had been expected. The underground
gate guards had been the first to die. They had been followed soon
after by the van's drivers.
Up on the third floor, the thieves hadn't stopped moving.
In quick succession they entered the vault room—an enormous lab
chamber bounded on every side by six-inch- thick porcelain walls.
Outside this porcelain cocoon was another, outer wall. It was
lead-lined and at least twelve inches thick. DARPA employees called
this lab 'the Vault'
and for good reason. Radio waves couldn't breach it. Directional
listening devices couldn't touch it. It was the most secure
facility in the building.
Was the most secure facility in the building.
The thieves fanned out quickly as they came into the lab
chamber.
Silence.
Like the womb.
And then, suddenly, they stopped dead in their tracks.
Their prize stood before them, occupying pride of place in the
centre of the lab.
15
It wasn't very big, despite what it could do.
It was maybe six feet tall and it looked like a giant hour glass:
two cones—the lower one pointing upwards, the upper one pointing
downwards—separated by a small tita nium chamber which held the
core of the weapon.
A collection of coloured wires snaked out from the tita nium
chamber in the centre of the device, most of them disappearing into
a laptop computer keyboard that was crudely attached to its front
section.
For the moment, the small titanium chamber was empty.
For the moment.
The thieves didn't waste any time. They removed the entire device
from its power generator and quickly placed it on a custom-made
sling.
Then they were moving again. Out the door. Up the cor ridor. Left
then right. Left then right. Through the brightly lit government
maze, stepping over the bodies they had killed on their way in. In
the space of ninety seconds, they arrived back at the underground
garage, where they all piled back into the van, together with their
prize. No sooner was the last man's feet inside than the van's
wheels skidded against the concrete and the big vehicle peeled away
from
the loading dock and sped out into the night.
The team's leader looked at his watch.
.5:59 am.
The entire operation had taken nine minutes.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
FIRST MACHINATION
Monday, January 4, 0910 hours
William Race was late for work. Again.
He'd overslept and then the subway had been delayed and now it was
ten after nine and he was late for his morn ing lecture. Race's
office was on the third floor of the old Delaware Building at New
York University. The building had an ancient wrought-iron elevator
that travelled at a snail's pace. It was quicker to take the
stairs.
At thirty-one, Race was one of the youngest members of staff in the
Ancient Languages Department at NYU. He was of average height—about
five-foot-nine and handsome in a very unassuming kind of way. He
had sandy-brown hair and a lean physique. A pair of wire-rimmed
glasses framed his blue eyes and an unusual facial mark—a
triangular brown birthmark situated directly below his left
eye.
Race hurried up the stairs, a thousand thoughts running through his
mind—his morning lecture on the works of the Roman historian Livy,
the parking fine from last month that he still had to pay, and the
article that he'd read in the New York Times that morning saying
that because 85 per cent of people based their ATM numbers on
important dates like birthdays and the like, thieves who stole
their wallets—thus obtaining not only ATM cards, but also driver's
licences containing the owners' dates of birth—were finding it
easier to break into their bank accounts. Damn it, Race thought, he
was going to have to change his PIN number.
He came to the top of the stairwell and hurried out into the
corridor.
And then he s.topped.
Two men stood in the hallway in front of him.
Soldiers.
They were decked out in full battle dress, too-helmets, body
armour, M-16s, the lot. One stood halfway down the corridor, nearer
to Race. The other was stationed further down the hall. He stood
rigidly to attention outside the door to Race's office. They
couldn't have looked more out of place—soldiers in a
university.
Both men snapped around immediately when they saw him burst out
from the stairwell. For some reason, in their presence, Race
suddenly felt inferiormsomehow unworthy, undisciplined. He felt
stupid in his Macy's sports coat, jeans and tie, carrying his
clothes for a lunchtime baseball game in a battered old Nike sports
bag.
As he approached the first soldier, Race looked him up and down—saw
the black assault rifle in his hands, saw the velveteen green beret
slouched on his head, saw the crescent-shaped patch on his shoulder
that read: SPECIAL FORCES.
'Uh, hi. I'm William Race. Ira'
'It's okay, Professor Race. Please go in. They're expecting
you.'
Race continued down the corridor, came to the second soldier. He
was taller than the first one, bigger. In fact, he was huge, a
mountain of a man—at least six-feetfour—with a'soft handsome face,
dark hair and narrow brown eyes that didn't miss a trick. The name
patch on his breast pocket read: VAN LEWEN. The three stripes on
his shoulder indicated that he was a sergeant.
Race's eyes drifted to the man's M-16. It had a state-ofthe-art
PAC-4C laser sighting device mounted on its barrel and an M-203
grenade launcher attached to its underside.
Serious stuff.
The soldier stepped aside promptly, allowed Race to enter his own
office.
Dr John Bernstein was sitting in the high-backed leather chair
behind Race's desk, looking very uncomfortable.
Bernstein was a white-haired man of fifty-nine and the
f the Ancient Languages Department at NYU, Race's
[here were three other men in the room.
'l'wo soldiers, one civilian.
ae two soldiers were dressed and armed in much the as the guards
outside fatigues, helmets, M-16s—and they both looked extremely
fit.
to be a little older than the other. He held his
formally, wedged firmly between his elbow and ribs, and he had
close-cropped black hair that barely
his forehead. Race's sandy-brown hair fell con- down into his
eyes.
The third stranger in the room, the civilian, was seated in
guest's chair in front of Bernstein. He was a big man,
and dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers. He a pug nose and dark
heavy-set features that were
with age and responsibility. And he sat in his : with the calm
assurance of someone who was used to being obeyed.
' Race got the distinct impression that everyone had been
waiting in his office for some time.
Waiting for him.
'Will,' John Bernstein said, coming around the desk and shaking his
hand. “Good morning. Come on in. I'd like you to meet someone.
Professor William Race, Colonel Frank Nash.'
The barrel-chested civilian extended his hand. Strong
grip.
'Retired. Good to meet you,' he said, looking Race over.
He then indicated the two soldiers. 'This is Captain Scott and
Corporal Cochrane of the U.S. Army Special Forces Group.'
'Green Berets,” Bernstein whispered respectfully in Race's
ear.
Then Bernstein cleared his throat. 'Colonel er, I mean, Doctor—Nash
is from the Tactical Technology Office at the Defense Advanced
Research Projects Agency. He's come here seeking our help.'
21
Frank Nash handed Race his photo-ID card. Race saw a mug shot of
Nash with the red DARPA logo on top of it and a whole lot of
numbers and codes beneath it. A magnetic strip ran down one side of
the card. Beneath the photo were the words: FRANCIS K. NASH, U.S.
ARMY, COL. (RET.). It was a
pretty impressive card. It screamed: important person.
Uh-huh, Race thought.
He had heard of DARPA before. It was the primary research and
development arm of the Department of Defense, the agency that had
invented the Arpanet, the military-only precursor to the Internet.
DARPA was also famous for its participation in the Have Blue
project in the 1970s, the top-secret Air Force project that had
resulted in the construction of the F-117 stealth fighten
In fact, truth be told, Race knew a little more about DARPA than
most, for the simple reason that his brother, Martin, worked there
as a design engineer.
Basicall) DARPA worked in partnership with each of the three
branches of the U.S. armed forces—the Army, the Navy and the Air
Force-developing high-technology military applications appropriate
to the needs of each force: stealth technology for the Air Force,
ultra-high-tensile body armour for the Army. Such was DARPA's
status, however, that its accomplishments often became the stuff of
urban legend. It was said, for example, that DARPA had recently
perfected the J'-7—the mythical A-frame rocket pack that would
ultimately replace the parachute but this had never been
proved.
The Tactical Technology Office, however, was the spearhead of
DARPA's arsenal, the jewel in its crown. It was the division in
charge of developing the big stuff—highrisk/high-return strategic
weaponry.
Race wondered what DARPA's Tactical Technology Office could
possibly want with the Ancient Languages Department at NYU.
'You want our help?' he asked, looking up from Nash's photo-ID
card.
'Well, actually, we came here specifically seeking your
help.“
help, Race thought. He lectured in ancient lan-
classical and medieval Latin—with a little
Spanish and German on the side. He couldn't of a single thing that
he could help DARPA with.
sort of help?' he asked.
Translating a manuscript. A four-hundredLatin manuscript.'
manuscript…' Race said. Such a request wasn't
He was often asked to translate medieval manu- It was unusual,
however, when it was asked in the
of armed commandos.
'Professor Race,' Nash said, 'the translation of the docu-
question is a matter of extreme urgency. In fact, the
itself is not even in the United States yet. It is en
as we speak. What we would require of you is to meet document at
Newark and translate it in transit to our
'In transit?' Race said. 'To where?'
'I'm afraid that is something I am unable tell you at this
Race was about to argue when suddenly the door to the office opened
and another Green Beret entered. He carried a
pack on his back and he walked quickly over to Nash, whispered
softly in his ear. Race caught the words: '—been ordered to
mobilise.'
'When?' Nash said.
'Ten minutes ago, sir,' the soldier whispered back.
Nash looked down quickly at his watch. 'Damn it.'
He swung back to face Race.
'Professor Race, we don't have much time, so I'm going to give this
to you straight. This is a very important mis sion, a mission that
seriously affects the national security of the United States. But
it is a mission that has a very short window of opportunity. We
must act now. But in order to do that, I need a translator. A
medieval Latin translator.
You.'
'How soon?'
'I have a car waiting out front.'
23
Race swallowed. 'I don't know…'
He could feel everyone's eyes on him. He felt suddenly nervous at
the prospect of travelling to destination unknown with Frank Nash
and a team of fully armed Green Berets. He felt like he was being
railroaded.
'What about Ed Devereux at Harvard?' he said. 'He's a lot better at
med-Latin than I am. He'd be faster.'
Nash said, 'I don't need the best and I don't have the time to
travel up to Boston. Your brother mentioned your name to us. He
said you were good and that you were in New York and quite frankly,
that's all I need. I need someone
close who can do the job now.'
Race bit his lip.
Nash said, 'You'll have a bodyguard assigned to you for the entire
mission. We'll pick up the manuscript at Newark in about thirty
minutes and get on the plane a few minutes after that. If all goes
well, you'll have the document translated by the time we land. You
won't even have to get off the plane. And if you do, you'll have a
team of Green Berets looking after you.'
Race frowned at that.
'Professor Race, you won't be the only academic on this mission.
Walter Chambers from Stanford will be there; Gabriela Lopez from
Princeton; and also Lauren O'Connor from—'
Lauren O'Connor, Race thought.
He hadn't heard that name in years.
Race had known Lauren back in his college days at USE.
While he had studied languages, she had majored in sci-
ence-theoretical physics. They'd dated, but it had ended badly.
Last he heard, she'd been working at the Livermore Labs in their
nuclear physics department.
Race looked at Nash. He wondered just how much Frank Nash knew
about Lauren and himself—wondered if he had dropped her name
deliberately.