“Ninety percent sure,” Locke said, then winced when he realized how wishy-washy that sounded.
To Locke’s surprise, his father said, “That’s good enough for me.”
“I’ve got an idea about how to verify it. Where are you now?”
“I’m on my way to White Sands,” the General said. “I want you there by noon. You’re attending a demonstration.” It was a command, not an invitation. Locke knew better than to argue.
“Of what?”
“I can’t say. But it’s relevant to our current problem.”
“Okay. I should be there by 11:30am.” White Sands was on the way to Phoenix from Atlanta. “I’m going to have Grant Westfield meet me there.”
“This is on a need-to-know basis.”
“You’ve met Grant. Former Ranger and combat engineer. He’s got the same clearance I do, and he’s a top- notch electrical engineer. He also knows more about the Hayden crash than anyone else.”
“Fine. Don’t be late.” He hung up.
Locke looked at the phone, puzzled. The conversation hadn’t gone as he’d expected. For a moment, it actually seemed like his father wanted his advice. Whatever the General wanted to show him at White Sands must be pretty important if he himself was making an appearance.
Locke went to the cockpit and poked his head in.
“Change of plans, guys. We’re going to New Mexico.”
FORTY-THREE
At 3200 square miles, White Sands Missile Range is the largest US military installation, three times the size of Rhode Island. It has been used as a test facility for some of the military’s most powerful weapons ever since the first atomic bomb was detonated at the Trinity site on the base’s eastern portion in 1945. Locke’s pilot landed on the runway used as an emergency landing site for the space shuttle.
The jet was guided to a ramp not far from a helicopter. Grant was standing next to it. Before the plane’s engines were silent, Locke opened the door to a blast of heat. He put on a cap and sunglasses and walked over to Grant, whose bald head was already beaded with sweat.
Grant gave Locke a serious look. “Man, I’m sorry about Dilara,” he said. “I’m sure she’s okay.”
“We’ll get her back,” Locke said confidently, even though he was burning up with concern.
“Damn right we will.”
“We going for a ride?”
“The test site is 50 miles from here. The General wants us there in a hurry.”
“Any idea why?”
Grant shook his head. “Apparently, he likes his secrets. Said he’d tell us when we got there.” They climbed in and were airborne one minute later.
In another twenty minutes, the chopper landed next to a collection of trailers hooked to a massive generator and satellite dishes.
Grant led Locke to the biggest trailer, a double wide. Inside, they found rows of computer monitors manned by technicians, some in civilian clothing, others in Air Force and Army uniforms. The AC cooled the room to a chilly 65 degrees. Locke could hear a countdown and saw a red timer centered above a huge window that had a great view of a mountain ten miles away. A plasma screen next to the window showed a closer view of the mountain. Fifteen minutes were left on the clock.
Major General Sherman Locke was conferring with two other generals at the other end of the trailer. When he saw his son and Grant enter, he cut off his discussion and approached them. He wore a grim expression.
Even in his late fifties, the General was a physically imposing man, fitter and taller than most of the younger soldiers in the room. Anyone who knew Tyler Locke could immediately see the resemblance between father and son. It was in their demeanor that they differed. The son had a relaxed way of dealing with others, preferring to lead by example and a soft touch. The father, on the other hand, commanded with an iron fist, demanding to be in charge in every situation he encountered, and this was no exception.
“Captain,” the General said, holding out his hand to Locke, “glad you could make it. Your sister told me to say hello.”
The General was the only person who insisted on using Locke’s military rank after he resigned his commission. It probably was also a message to the others in the room that his son was an officer.
“General,” Locke said, taking the General’s granite grip and returning it hard, “please return the favor for me.”
The General nodded at Grant and shook his hand perfunctorily. Locke and his father silently appraised each other, neither revealing anything beyond a blank stare.
“I bet it took a lot for you to call me,” the General said his son.
Locke ignored the dig. “You saw the report from the CDC?”
“I’ve warned Ft. Detrick and the FBI for years that computers and private labs would eventually put dangerous bioweapons in the hands of non-governmental actors. They were concerned about anthrax and smallpox, but I knew it was a matter of time before we saw something worse, and now it looks like we have.”
General Locke was in charge of the military’s Defense Threat Reduction Agency, which was responsible for countering weapons of mass destruction. His 35 years in the Air Force had made him one of the best-connected and most respected officers. His position allowed him to be involved in practically any operation he wanted, especially when units were testing out new weaponry in the battlefield.
A full bird colonel approached and quietly asked the General a question. The General answered and the colonel responded with a smart, “Yes, sir!”
Locke had been around his father during parties with other officers, but he’d never seen the General in a command situation before. Despite everything, he felt a certain amount of pride seeing his father in charge.
“General,” Locke said, “the people who deployed the bioagent on Hayden’s airplane tried the same thing on the Genesis Dawn. I’m sure they’ll make another attempt soon.”
“And you claim that Sebastian Garrett is behind this?”
“Yes, sir,” Locke said, marveling at how quickly he felt himself becoming an Army officer again in his father’s presence. “We have evidence that Sebastian Garrett is responsible. He owns one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the country, and he’s an expert in biochemistry. He also has the financial resources to build Oasis.”
“This bunker you think he has.”
Locke told the General about Project Oasis’s connection to John Coleman and how Locke had briefly worked on the project when it was called Whirlwind.
“If they didn’t substantially change the design specs from the ones I saw,” Locke said, “we’re talking about a bunker that would rival Mt. Weather. It could easily keep 300 people alive and comfortable during the time it took for this prion agent to kill the rest of the world’s population and then disperse.”
The General paused as if he were deciding what to say to them next. He took Grant and Locke aside out of earshot of the nearest technician and lowered his voice.
“What I’m about to tell you is highly classified,” he said. “I believe you. I believe you because we’ve had Garrett under investigation for two years.”
Locke and Grant looked at each other in surprise.
“What?” Grant said a little too loudly. He quieted his voice and went on. “Why? Garrett not pay his taxes?”
“Someone’s been hiring away some of the best bioweapon designers in the country from various subcontractors that were working with USAMRIID at Ft. Detrick. At first, we thought they were being lured by more money at private pharma firms. But when the numbers got larger, we started to investigate. We speculate they were promised work on other defense projects in biowarfare by entities claiming to represent secret government projects. Of course, these companies weren’t under contract to the Defense Department, but the people they recruited didn’t know that.”
