He was only inside because he lost a coin toss.
“Is Smith on-point?”
“Yeah,” said Bunny. “His weapon was damaged in the blast, but I gave him mine and he’s watching our asses. Sat phone’s toast, but we have team radio. Smith’s on channel two.”
Top spit blood out of his mouth and tapped his commlink to the channel. “Rock to Chatterbox, come in.”
“Go for Chatterbox,” said Smith quietly. The link was bad, full of static.
“What’ve you got?”
“Zero movement, zero hostiles.”
“ETA on fire and rescue.”
There was a pause. “From where?”
“From the main damn building,” Top snapped, but then he caught Bunny’s eye. The big man shook his head, then nodded past the end of the overturned Humvee. Top staggered away from the vehicle and looked past it. The Locust hangar had been at the edge of the complex, the outermost of eleven buildings. Most of the buildings were empty as the base dwindled toward complete decommission, but there was a security shack, crews quarters, and the aeronautics lab. Four active buildings and seventy staff.
Or … there should have been.
Now all there was, as far as the eye could see, was burning rubble and towers of smoke that rose to the sky like the pillars of hell.
Area 51 had been wiped off the face of the earth.
Part Two
Driving Force
—AUBERON HERBERT
Chapter Twenty
Barrier Headquarters
Agincourt Road, London
December 18, 8:41 A.M. GMT
Mr. Church’s phone rang. He looked at the screen display and saw that it was his aide. Sergeant Dietrich knew that he was in a meeting with Barrier and the Home Secretary and would never interrupt unless it was an emergency.
Church excused himself and stepped into the hall as he thumbed on the phone.
“Boss,” Dietrich said in a fierce whisper, “Lucky Team and Echo Team have been hit.” He quickly told Church about Area 51.
“God Almighty,” whispered Church. “Is there anything to indicate that this is a Seven Kings event?”
“Not so far, but we don’t have investigators on the scene yet. I called the Casino. They’re pretty rattled, but they’ve scrambled some choppers.”
“Notify all stations to go to Level One Crisis Alert.”
“You want me to come get you?”
“Yes, but then we have to pick up Captain Ledger. The situation in Scotland looks like it’s going south on us.”
“Christ. What the hell’s happening, Boss? Three Level Ones in twenty-four hours?”
“The Seven Kings are making their move.”
“But
Church didn’t answer. Instead he gave Dietrich a string of orders and then hung up.
Church stood in the empty hallway for two minutes as he worked it out in his head. Then he made several calls. The first was to the President of the United States. The second was to Aunt Sallie at the Hangar to apprise her of the situation.
Then he dialed the number for Hugo Vox.
“Deacon?” said Vox. “You get a break on the London thing?”
“We have a new situation, Hugo,” Church said, and quickly outlined the problem.
“Ah … Christ! Is this more of the Seven Kings bullshit?”
“Too soon to tell, but it seems likely.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Has your think tank come up with anything?”
“Nothing useful, but they’re hard at it. Bug’s been feeding us intel, but no one’s come up with a good reason why that hospital should have been targeted.”
“I was hoping for more by now, Hugo.”
“I can go beat them with chains, Deke … but it won’t make them think any faster. We need more data. Can I tell them about Area 51?”
“Yes, but if you do then the team has to be sequestered for the duration of the crisis. That could be hours, days, or weeks.”
“They’re not going to like that.”
“Imagine how much I care.”
Vox snorted. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Church said. “Is Circe still at T-Town?”
“No, the good Dr. O’Tree is in London. I’ve had her working on security for that silly boat ride thing for the last couple of months. Goddamn waste of resources.”
“You disapprove of the Sea of Hope?”
“Of its intent? No, of course not, but they’ve asked for so damn much security that every agency is coming up short and my own crew is spread pretty thin. Bad damn timing for all this other shit to hit the fan.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“And with the Hospital attack, the Brits are not only
“It’s an opportunist’s dream hit. It’s the Prince of England and a lot of other celebrities.”
“It’s celebrities’ kids. Inbred offspring of the rich and famous. The Paris Hilton crowd. Fucking bunch of privileged silver-spoon—”
“Really, Hugo? We have time for this?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s a sore spot with me. There’s just too much going on in the real world for me to want expend any consideration for stunt events.”
“Message noted. Now, back to matters at hand. Where’s Circe?”
