'Oh, dear. Oh, dear.' Marty followed and patted her shoulder.
Therese sobbed, dropped to her knees, and rolled her father over. There were two bullet holes in his chest. Blood matted his shirt.
'Is he alive, Jon? Tell me whether he's alive!'
As Jon crouched beside her, he looked at his watch. 'Mart! The computer. It's less than two minutes to midnight!'
Marty shook his round head as if to clear it. 'Okay, Jon.' He fell into Emile Chambord's chair and went to work on the keyboard.
Peter ran toward the door. 'Let's go, Randi. Somebody has to watch their backs.'
Nodding agreement, she tore after him. Their dark clothes faded into the landing's long shadows.
Jon checked Dr. Chambord. 'Looks as if both of the bullets entered your father's heart. I'm sorry, Therese. He died instantly.'
She nodded and wept.
Shaking his head, Jon stood up and hurried around to where he could stand behind Marty and be available if needed. At the same time, he surveyed the old armory, with its medieval armaments, shields, and armor hanging from the stone walls and leaning in corners. The room was vast, with quite a bit of furniture, all of it old, heavy wood. The ceiling was high, and the electric lights inadequate to thoroughly illuminate it. In fact, it appeared to him that fully three-quarters of the big room was without light. The fixtures were only in this section near the door. Still, Jon could see far enough back to make out stacks of wood crates, which he assumed held ammunition.
'Faster, you monster,' Marty exhorted the silent apparatus. 'Resist the master, will you? You cannot defeat the Paladin. There, that's better. Zounds, you slippery beast. Aha! You can squirm, and you can flee all you want, but you can't hide from' He jerked and was silent.
'What is it, Marty?' Jon asked quickly. 'What do you see?' He stared at the numbers, symbols, and letters as they scaled the screen, line after line. Although he could do rudimentary programming, he had no idea what any of them meant.
Marty bounced in the chair as if it were a hot seat. 'Snake! Dragon! You cannot defeat the hero, the knight, the warrior. Calm there now there ah! I have you, you filthy jabberwock, you. Oh God!'
'Something's happened, Marty. Tell me what it is!'
He looked up at Jon, his sturdy face pale. 'Emile picked an operational Russian ICBM. It's armed. Nuclear armed. And now it's launched!' He gasped as he returned to translate the information on the screen. 'The missile's in the air. It's gone!'
Jon's chest tightened. His mouth went dry. 'Where's it going, Mart? What's the target?'
Marty blinked. 'Omaha.' He stared at the monitor and then back up at Jon, his face a mask of misery and alarm. 'We're too late.'
Chapter Forty
Alone in his private quarters, the powerful throb of the four jet engines in his ears, President Castilla stared at his reflection in the window as Air Force One's wheels touched the runway in a solid landing. Soon he and his people would be safe in the heavily fortified underground bunkers of the U.S. Strategic Commandor STRATCOM as everyone called it here at Offutt Air Force Base. STRATCOM was the beating heart of the country's defense, charged with the planning, targeting, and wartime deployment of strategic forces. While NORAD monitored the skies, STRATCOM coordinated any retaliatory strikes.
He adjusted his gaze and looked out the window: Yes, an Air Force One-style jet was speeding down another runway, about to lift off. One of the fleet was always stationed at STRATCOM for emergencies. Now it would be a diversion, attracting the attention of any enemy searching for him.
The president heaved a deep sigh, feeling guilty for the lives that were put in peril to protect him and his office. He turned from the window. As the big jet slowed and began to taxi, he picked up the microphone of a large short-wave radio.
'How are you holding up, Brandon?'
From his bunker in North Carolina, Vice President Brandon Erikson said, 'Good, Sam, good. You?'
'Tolerable. Starting to sweat though. Could use a shower.'
'I know.'
'Ready to take over, Brandon?'
'There won't be any need for that.'
The president gave a mirthless chuckle. 'Always liked your confidence. I'll be in touch.' He clicked off. As he adjusted his weight uneasily in the chair, a sharp knocking hammered his door. 'Come!'
Chuck Ouray entered. His face was a gray mask, and his legs appeared wobbly. 'It's STRATCOM command center, sir. The experimental missile defense has crashed. There's nothing left for us to do. We're totally helpless. The chiefs are talking to the scientists, trying to get everything back up, but they're not optimistic.'
'On my way.'
Tension filled the dank old armory. Jon peered anxiously over Marty's shoulder at the computer screen. The room was cold and quiet. The only sounds were of muted gunfire and the clicking of the keyboard as Marty frantically worked.
Jon did not want to interrupt Marty. Still: 'Can you abort the missile?'
'I'm trying.' Marty's voice was hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to talk. He glanced up. 'Dam it, I did too good a job teaching Emile. He's done a lot of damage and I'm to blame!' His gaze returned to the monitor, and he pounded the keyboard, searching for a way to stop the missile. 'Emile learned fast I've found it. Oh no! The missile's at its apogee halfway across the Atlantic!'
Jon felt himself tremble. His nerves were as taut as a violin string. He took a breath to relax and clamped a reassuring hand on Marty's shoulder. 'You've got to find some way any way to stop that nuclear warhead, Mart.'
Captain Darius Bonnard leaned against the stone wall, his bloody left arm dangling useless, a wadded shirt pressed against his bleeding side, as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Most of the men were behind a barricade of heavy medieval furniture around the corner. He could hear the general calling orders and encouraging them. Bonnard listened with a small smile on his face. He had expected to die in some glorious Legion battle against a powerful enemy of France, but this apparently small contest might be even more worthy, and the enemy the most crucial of all. After all, this was a clear-cut struggle for the future.
As he comforted himself with those thoughts, he saw a sweaty soldier of the Second Legion Regiment rushing toward him, heading for the barricade.
Bonnard held up his hand. 'Stop. Report.'
'We found Maurice, tied and gagged. He was guarding the Chambord woman. He says his attackers were three men and an armed woman. The Islamics wouldn't have a female soldier.'
Bonnard staggered upright. It had to be that CIA witch, which meant Jon Smith and his people were here. Leaning on the Legionnaire's shoulder, he stumbled around the corner, fell behind the barricade, and crawled to where La Porte was crouched and firing at the wall of furniture at the distant end of the passage.
Bonnard panted. 'Colonel Smith's here, General. In the castle. He's got three people with him.'
La Porte frowned and checked his watch. It was seconds before midnight. He gave a brief, satisfied smile. 'Do not concern yourself, Darius. They're too late' He paused, realizing the number was significant. Four. There should be only three Smith, the Englishman Howell, and the CIA woman. 'Zellerbach! They must have brought Zellerbach, too. If anyone can interfere with the attack, it's him.' He bawled orders. Then: 'Retreat! To the armory. Go!'
As the men raced away, La Porte gazed at his longtime aide, who looked badly wounded. With luck, he would die. Still, it was a risk to wait. He checked to make certain the Legionnaires' backs were turned.
'What is it, mon General?' Bonnard was watching him weakly, puzzled.
