you’ll perform your assignment.”
“Which is?”
“Turn off Isabella.”
FROM A PERCH AT THE TOP of the bluffs above Nakai Valley, Nelson Begay scanned the Isabella complex with a pair of old army binoculars. A chopper had passed low over the tipi, its rotors drowning out their Blessing Way ceremony and shaking the tipi like a dust devil. Begay and Becenti had climbed up the hillside for a better view, and they could see it had landed at the airstrip, a mile away.
“They coming after us?” Willy Becenti asked.
“No idea,” said Begay, watching. Men with guns were piling out of the chopper. After breaking into a hangar, they drove out two Humvees and began transferring gear into them.
Begay shook his head. “I don’t think it has anything to do with us.”
“You sure?” Becenti sounded disappointed.
“I’m not sure. We better head over and take a closer look.” He glanced at Becenti, saw the eager restlessness in his eyes. Begay laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just keep your cool, all right?”
53
STANTON LOCKWOOD LIFTED HIS CUFF TO peek at his Rolex. Quarter to two in the morning. The president had ordered in the FBI Hostage Rescue Team at midnight, and now the operation was in full swing. A few minutes ago, the HRT had landed at the airstrip. They were now transferring their gear to Humvees to take them the half- mile to the secure zone at the cliff’s edge, directly above the opening to the Bunker.
The atmosphere in the Oval Office was edgy. Jean, the president’s secretary, was shaking the tension out of her writing hand.
“They’ve loaded the first Humvee,” said the FBI Director, who had been giving the president a running commentary. “Still no sign of anyone. They’re all down in the Bunker, as we thought.”
“No luck contacting them?”
“None. All communications from the airstrip to the Bunker are turned off.”
Lockwood shifted in his chair. He searched his mind for a logical explanation. There was none.
The situation room door opened, and Roger Morton entered carrying several sheets of paper. Lockwood followed him with his eyes. He had never liked the man, but now he detested him, with his horn-rimmed glasses, his immaculate suit, his tie that looked like it had been glued to his shirtfront. Morton was the quintessential Washington operator. With these sour thoughts in mind, he watched Morton conferring with the president, their heads together, scrutinizing the piece of paper. They waved Galdone over and all three took a long look.
The president looked up at Lockwood. “Stan, take a look at this.”
Lockwood rose and joined the group. The president handed him the printout of an e-mail. Lockwood began to read:
“It’s all over the Internet,” said Morton, speaking even before he had finished. “And I mean
Lockwood shook his head and placed the letter on the table. “I find it depressing that in America in the twenty-first century, this kind of medieval thinking could still exist.”
The president stared at him. “The letter is more than ‘depressing,’ Stan. It’s calling for an armed attack on a U.S. government facility.”
“Mr. President, I personally would not take this seriously. The letter has no directions, no plan of action, no meeting place. It’s just hot air. Stuff like this circulates on the Web every day. Look how many people read that Left Behind series. You didn’t see them taking to the streets.”
Morton gazed at him with passive hostility. “Lockwood, this letter’s been posted to tens of thousands of Web sites. It’s circulating like mad. We’ve got to take it seriously.”
The president heaved a sigh. “Stan, I wish I was as optimistic as you about this. But this letter, on top of that sermon . . .” He shook his head. “We need to prepare for the worst.”
Galdone rumbled his throat clear to speak. “People who think the world is coming to an end might be liable to do something rash. Even resort to violence.”
“Christianity is supposed to be a nonviolent religion,” Lockwood said.
“We aren’t impugning anyone’s religious beliefs, Stan,” the president said tartly. “All of us here need to realize that this is a sensitive area, in which people can easily take offense.” He tossed the letter on the desk and turned to the Director of Homeland Security. “Where’s the closest National Guard unit?”
“That would be Camp Navajo in Bellemont, just north of Flagstaff.”
“How far is that from Red Mesa?”
“About a hundred and twenty-five miles.”
“Mobilize them and chopper them down to Red Mesa. As a backup.”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, half the unit’s overseas and their equipment and their rotary wing aircraft are not what one might wish for an operation of this sort.”
“How quickly could you bring the unit up to full strength?”
“We could bring up assets and personnel from Phoenix and Nellis AFB. It might take three to five hours, pushing it.”
“Five is too long. Do what you can in three. I want them in the air by four forty-five A.M.”
“Four forty-five A.M.,” repeated the DNS. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Put out a quiet word to the Arizona State Police to double their patrols and report any unusual traffic on the interstates and secondary roads around the Navajo Indian Reservation. And be ready to throw up roadblocks at short notice.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Lockwood spoke. “There’s a small Navajo Tribal Police station in Pinon, only twenty miles from Red Mesa.”
“Excellent. Have them send a patrol out to the Red Mesa road, to check it out.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I want all this done
There were none.
He turned to Lockwood. “I hope you’re right. God knows, we might have ten thousand idiots heading to Red Mesa right now.”
54
FORD FELT THE SWEAT TRICKLING DOWN his scalp. The heat was climbing in the Bridge, despite the air- conditioning system running at full power. Isabella hummed and sang, the walls vibrating. He glanced at Kate, but her attention was fully fixed on the Visualizer screen.
“Is this inevitable or is there some way to prevent it?” Hazelius asked.
“So that’s the ultimate purpose of existence?” asked Ford. “To defeat this mysterious heat death? Sounds like something out of a science fiction novel.”
The way to what?“ Hazelius asked.
“What’s this final state?”
“You mentioned the ‘fullness of time,’ ” said Edelstein. “How long is that, exactly?”
