Blasphemy

charge, what the hell’s going on out there?”

“I’m sorry,” Hall stammered, “Mr. President, I have no idea. This is unprecedented. I don’t know what to say—”

The president cut him off, turning to Lockwood. “Who was the last to be in contact with the Isabella team? Stan, do you know?”

“It was probably me. I spoke to my inside man at seven MDT, and he said everything was fine. He said a run was planned and that he’d go down and join them at eight. He gave no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.”

“Got any theories about what’s going on?”

Lockwood’s mind had been racing through the possibilities, none of which made sense. He controlled the panic welling inside, keeping his voice steady and calm. “I’m not sure I’ve got a clear handle on it.”

“Could we be dealing with some kind of internal mutiny? Sabotage?”

“It’s possible.”

The President turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sitting in his office in the Pentagon, wearing his rumpled field uniform. “General, you’re in charge of the rapid response units, where’s the closest one?”

“Nellis AFB, in Nevada.”

“National Guard Unit?”

“Flagstaff.”

“FBI? Where’s the closest field office?”

Jack Strand, the FBI Director, answered from his screen. “Also Flagstaff.”

The president thought, his brow furrowed, tapping his finger on the table. “General, have them send out the closest chopper to investigate.”

At this, Gordon Galdone, the campaign chief, shifted his bulk, sighed, and pressed a finger to his soft lips.

The oracle speaks, thought Lockwood sourly.

“Mr. President?” The man had an orotund voice, not unlike Orson Welles in his obese years.

“Yes, Gordon?”

“May I point out that this is not just a scientific or even military problem? It’s a political problem. For weeks the press and others have been asking why Isabella isn’t online. The Times ran an editorial last week. Four days ago a scientist committed suicide. We’ve got a firestorm among the Christian fundamentalists. Now the scientists won’t answer their telephones. On top of that, we have a science adviser who is freelancing as a spy.”

“Gordon, I approved it,” said the president.

Galdone continued unperturbed. “Mr. President, we are heading into a public relations disaster. You supported the Isabella project. You’re identified with it. You’re going to take a big hit—unless we solve this problem right away. Sending out a chopper to investigate is too little, too late. It’ll take all night and things will still be a mess in the morning. God help us when the media gets hold of this.”

“So what do you propose, Gordon?”

“To fix the problem by tomorrow morning.”

“How?”

“Send in a teamequipped to take control of Isabella and shut it down—and escort the scientists off the premises.”

“Just a minute,” the president said. “The Isabella project is the best thing I’ve done. I’ll be damned if I’ll shut it down!”

“You shut it down or it will shut you down.”

Lockwood was shocked to hear an adviser address the president so rudely.

Morton spoke. “Mr. President, I agree with Gordon. We’re less than two months from the election. We don’t have the luxury of time. We’ve got to shut down the Isabella project tonight. We can sort it all out later.”

“We don’t even know what the hell’s going on out there,” the president said. “How do you know we’re not dealing with some kind of terrorist attack or hostage situation?”

“Perhaps we are,” said Morton.

A silence. The president turned to his National Security Advisor, on a flat panel. “You got a hint of something going down anywhere in national intelligence?”

“Nothing that we’re aware of, Mr. President.”

“All right, let’s send in a team. Armed and ready for any level of conflict. But no big mobilization, nothing that would alert the press or make us look stupid later. A small, elite, SWAT-type team, highly trained—to get in there, secure the damn place, shut it down, and escort the scientists out. The operation to be completed by dawn.” He sat back. “Okay: Who can do it?”

The Director of the FBI spoke. “The Rocky Mountain Hostage Rescue Team is based in Denver, less than four hundred miles from the Isabella project. Eleven highly capable men, all ex-Delta, specifically trained to operate on American soil.”

“Yes, but here at the CIA—,” began the DCI.

“Great.” The president cut him off and turned to Lockwood. “Stan? What do you think?”

Lockwood struggled to keep his voice calm. “Mr. President, in my opinion this talk of a commando raid is premature. I strongly agree with what you said earlier—we should find out what’s going on first. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Send a helicopter out there with some people to knock on the door, so to speak.”

Morton spoke in a crisp voice. “Tomorrow morning, every TV news station in the country will be out there. We’ll be operating under a media microscope. Our freedom of action will be gone. If for some reason the scientists have barricaded themselves in there, it could be Waco all over again.”

“Waco?” repeated Lockwood incredulously. “We’re talking about twelve eminent scientists here led by a Nobel laureate. These are not a bunch of crazy cultists!”

The chief of staff turned to the president. “Mr. President, I can’t emphasize strongly enough that this operation must be completed without fail by dawn. Everything will change when the media arrive. We don’t have time to send someone out there to ‘knock on doors.’ ” His voice rose with sarcasm.

“I absolutely concur,” said Galdone.

“No alternative?” asked the president quietly.

“None.”

Lockwood swallowed. He felt sick. He had lost the argument and now he would be forced to participate in the shutting down of Isabella. “The operation you propose may present some difficulties.”

“Explain.”

“You can’t just cut power to Isabella. It could cause an explosion. The power flows are tricky and can only be controlled from within, by the computer. If for some reason the scientific team inside isn’t . . . cooperating, you’ll need to have someone along who can shut down Isabella safely.”

“Who do you recommend?”

“That same man I mentioned earlier up at Los Alamos, Bernard Wolf.”

“We’ll send a chopper to fetch him. How about getting in?”

“The access door to the Bunker is hardened against external attack. All the forced air systems are highly secure. If the team won’t or can’t open the front doors, it may be difficult to reach them.”

“There’s no security override?”

“DHS felt an override might allow a point of entry for terrorists.”

“How do we get in, then?”

God, how he hated this. “The best way would be straight in through the front door, with explosives. It’s halfway down a sheer cliff. There’s a large staging area in front, but much of it’s recessed under the cliff and I’m sure you couldn’t land a military helicopter in there. You’ll have to land the team on top and rappel down, then breach the door. I’m describing a worst-case scenario. The scientists will probably just let the team in.”

“How’d they get heavy equipment in there if there’s no road?”

“They used the old coal-mine road, then dynamited it off the side of the mountainside when Isabella was complete. Again—security.”