modified so that it was incapable of producing any sound with a frequency higher than fourteen kilohertz, a full eight thousand hertz lower than the established sound trigger.
If there was anything they had missed, Lauren couldn't think of it, and yet, at the same time, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something obvious they had overlooked.
She passed through security for the fourth different time that afternoon on her way into the stadium once again. The agent studied her face and her body before letting her pass into a gated section where she was patted down and her ID carefully scrutinized by two men in army fatigues before being allowed to pass. She worked her way through the mad throngs toward the command center, which had been set up behind the visiting team's goalposts, directly under the lower tier of stands and between the tunnels from which the players would emerge onto the field through smoke and fireworks. Popcorn crunched underfoot and she nearly slipped in a puddle of beer. The entire place reeked of body odor, barley and hops, and processed meat products. The plainclothes forces blended into the woodwork all around her, betrayed only by the ceaseless motion of their eyes across the masses. And by the bulges of their shoulder holsters beneath their civilian attire.
After once again producing her credentials, she was admitted to the command center. There were people in motion everywhere she looked. Every console was manned by a red-eyed, harried agent swilling coffee and fearing to so much as blink. There had to be two hundred monitors, each divided into four different live-action quadrants. Facial recognition programs zeroed in on one individual after another, searching for Patel or any known person of interest. Every man or woman wore either a headset or an earpiece, depending upon their designated mobility. The tension had ratcheted up several notches since she was last here. She feared that if the man wasn't apprehended before kickoff, the whole scene might boil over into aggression and mistakes would be made.
Special Agent Antonio Bellis, FBI liaison between the command center and the military, police, and secret service teams, broke away from a gathering and hustled to her side.
'Are all of your preparations in place?'
'The four containment vehicles are ready and waiting for transport. Each has been checked and double- checked to confirm the patency of the air-tight seals. Not even a single oxygen molecule could get out of their cabs. And all of the EpiPens have been distributed to their pre-arranged locations. They're well within range if we factor in a full minute for the manifestation of symptomatology, but I still worry that mass panic will prevent their timely administration.'
'That can't be helped. Besides, it won't come to that. If this guy's anywhere near here, my men will find him.'
'You're assuming he's working alone.'
'We've been over this and I'm tired of repeating my position, Dr. Allen. Your sole responsibility now is to maintain your level of preparedness and stand silent vigil. If things get out of hand---which they won't---your people are to minimize casualties. That's all. Leave the rest of this to the professionals. We have this under control.'
He turned his back on her and waded into the frenzy of activity again.
Lauren shook her head. No amount of preparation could impose order upon chaos.
And even if they did manage to prevent catastrophe today, what were they going to do tomorrow? The next day? The one after that? Pandora's box had been opened and there was no way of predicting when or where the next attack would occur. They couldn't police every sporting event, every mall, every Broadway play, every school or every government installation on the off-chance that it might come under siege by swarms of killer wasps or some other surprise threat they couldn't even imagine. If men were to the point of engineering wasps like this, then who's to say they couldn't infect nearly invisible dust mites with hemorrhagic fever or seed the clouds with anthrax or the botulinum toxin that with the first rain would make the land uninhabitable for generations?
They'd already lost the war and they didn't even know it yet. All that remained was to determine the method of their ultimate extinction.
And the clock was ticking.
II
Lauren paced nervously from one section to the next, not certain exactly what she expected to see, but she knew that with each passing second they came closer to the penultimate moment of reckoning. Thus far, there was no score. The teams on the field were performing the annual Super Bowl ritual of cautiously feeling each other out, testing for weaknesses to exploit while doing their best to hide their own. The first quarter had ended in a tie at zero apiece, and at the rate they were going, they might be looking at goose eggs at halftime. Yet, despite the score, the crowd was frenzied. These were people who'd journeyed from around the country to be a part of history and appeared as though they intended to make the most of the opportunity. Mob mentality was in full effect; commonly accepted behavior gave way to a kind of low, thrumming potential that felt as though it could ignite at any minute. Everyone stood; jostling for a better sightline, shouting, shoving, pounding beers as though this were the only place on earth that served them, absorbing the individual into the mass that threatened to explode with the first points scored.
She studied them all, her eyes flashing from one face to the next in hopes of identifying the one face that didn't jibe with the rest, the one set of eyes focused on something other than the game, on some twisted thought squirming through a diseased mind.
Nothing.
No one.
Their most gloomy estimates showed that if the wasps were released in significant numbers, fewer than a third of those in attendance would be able to receive the shots of epinephrine in time. The best case scenario still left thousands leaving the dome in body bags.
A whistle from the field marked the two-minute warning.
She glanced back over her shoulder. The Lions had the ball near midfield on the Super Bowl logo. Fifteen more yards and they would be in field goal range. The bedlam that followed the first points scored would provide the perfect cover for the attack.
Her hands trembled as she scanned the crowd. Which one was it? Which one?!
She walked along the rail to the next section and looked up from the second tier to the third.
Behind her, the game commenced once more.
Men and women lined the balcony. Below them, the clock ticked downward.
1:57.
1:56.
A cheer rose in response to something that happened behind her, but she didn't dare look.
The game clock continued to run.
1:43.
1:42.
Somewhere beneath her feet, Eminem and Kid Rock prepared to take the stage in an unofficial nod to Detroit that had been the source of much controversy during the last two weeks. Especially among Jaguar fans, who felt something as asinine as a halftime act could swing momentum.
1:18.
1:17.
If someone in the crowd wanted to guarantee that he'd be on television, where would he sit? The fifty yard line might offer the best seats in the house, but was unlikely to be featured during the broadcast. First row in the end zone? A player might leap up into the stands after a touchdown, but what were the odds that he would do so, and that he would do so in the exact right place? The only time she could think of that the crowd was going to be shown every single time was...
