Wolf waited. The other soldiers had gone down, leaving them alone at the edge. The power lines hummed and crackled. The soldier’s radio hissed, and he spoke into it. Wolf half listened. State troopers were reporting some kind of problem on the road leading to the mesa. Wolf tuned it out. He was thinking of the cliff.
More conversation, then Miller said, “Step this way, sir. We’re going to put you in this sling. Ever rappelled?”
“No.”
“It’s perfectly safe. Just lean back a little, plant your feet on the rock face, and give gentle hops. You can’t fall, even if you let go of the rope.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s perfectly safe, sir.”
They rigged him into the sling, which went around his legs, seat, and lower back, locking the rope in a system of carabiners and brake bars. Then they positioned him at the edge of the cliff with his back facing out. He could feel the wind coming up from below.
“Lean out and step over backward.”
“Lean back, sir. Take a step. Keep the tension on the rope. We’ll lower you, sir.”
Wolf stared at Miller, incredulous. The agent’s voice was so studiously polite that it seemed tinged with contempt.
“I just can’t do this,” he said.
The rope slackened, and he felt a sudden rush of panic.
“Lean back.” Miller said firmly.
“Get me a cage or something to lower me in.”
Miller leaned him back, almost cradling him in his arms.
“That’s it. Just like that. Very good, Dr. Wolf.”
Wolf’s heart hammered. Again he could feel, on his back, a cool movement of air from below. The soldier released him, and his feet slipped and he banged sideways into the cliff face.
“Lean back and plant your feet on the rock.”
His heart pounding like mad, he scrabbled his feet on the rock, looking for a purchase. He found it, forced himself to lean back. It seemed to work. As he took little light steps, always leaning out, the rope slipped through the brake bar, lowering him. Once he was below the ledge, darkness descended, but he could still see the rim overhead, limned in light. As he continued, the rim grew more and more distant. He didn’t dare look down.
Unbelievably he was doing it, bouncing and hopping down the cliff, his whole being swallowed in darkness. At last, soldiers grasped his legs and lowered him to a stone floor. When he stood up, his legs trembled. The soldiers helped him out of the sling. His pack swung down on a rope a moment later, and the soldiers snagged it. Miller arrived next.
“Well done, sir.” he said.
“Thank you.”
A large area had been carved into the side of the mountain. At the far end, a massive titanium door was set into the rock. The area was already strung out with harsh lights, looking like the entrance to the island of Dr. No. Wolf felt Isabella’s deep humming vibrating out of the mountain. It was very strange that they had lost all communication with the inside. There were too many backup systems. And the SIO would see them on the security screens—unless those, too, were down.
Very strange.
The soldiers were setting up three conical metal dishes on tripods and pointing them toward the door, like stubby mortars. One man started packing the cones with what looked like C-4.
Doerfler stood to one side, giving orders.
“What are those?” Wolf asked.
“Rapid wall-breaching demolition devices,” said Miller. “Ganged charges, there, converge at a single point and blow a hole big enough to crawl through.”
“And then?”
“We’ll send in a team through the hole to secure the Bunker and a second team to breach the inner door to the Bridge. We’ll secure the Bridge, deal with any bad guys, and take the scientists into custody. There may be shooting. We don’t know. As soon as the Bridge’s been fully secured, I take you in. Personally. You shut Isabella down.”
“It takes three hours to shut down the system,” Wolf said.
“You’ll run that operation.”
“What about Dr. Hazelius and the other scientists?”
“Our men will escort them off the premises for debriefing.”
Wolf folded his arms. It looked good on paper, no doubt.
61
STANTON LOCKWOOD SHIFTED AGAIN IN THE cheap wooden chair, trying to find comfort where none existed. The mood around the mahogany table in the Situation Room was one of mounting incredulity. At 3:00 A.M.—1:00 A.M. at Red Mesa—the news was bad.
Lockwood had grown up in the Bay area, gone to schools on the West and East coasts, and lived in Washington for the past twelve years. He’d had TV glimpses of another America out there, the America of the Creationists and Christian-nationists, the televangelists and glitzy megachurches. That America had always seemed remote, relegated to places like Kansas and Oklahoma.
It was no longer remote.
The FBI Director asked, “Mr. President?”
“Yes, Jack?”
“The Arizona Highway Patrol reports disturbances at the roadblocks on Route 89 at Grey Mountain, Route 160 at Tuba City and also at Tes Nez Iah.”
“What kind of disturbances?”
“Several state troopers have been injured in scattered melees. Traffic is heavy and a lot of people are evading the road blocks, taking off cross-country. Trouble is, the Navajo Reservation is crisscrossed with hundreds of improvised dirt roads, most of which aren’t even on the maps. Our roadblocks are leaking like a sieve.”
The president turned the monitor to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who sat in his wood-paneled office in the Pentagon, the American flag hung behind him on the wall. “General Crisp, where’s the National Guard?”
“Two hours from deployment.”
“We don’t
“Finding the requisite choppers, pilots, and trained troops has been a challenge, Mr. President.”
“I’ve got state troopers out there getting their butts kicked. Not in some sorry-ass corner of Afghanistan, but right here in the United States of America. And you’re telling me
“Most of our choppers are in the Middle East.”
The FBI Director spoke. “Mr. President?”
The president turned. “What?”
“I’ve just gotten a report . . .” He accepted a piece of paper from someone offscreen. “. . . an emergency communication from a Navajo Tribal policeman who went up to Red Mesa to investigate—”
“By himself?”
“He went up unawares, like all of us at that time, of the true situation. Sent out an emergency call, which was cut off. I’ve got a transcription.” He read from a piece of paper. “‘
“Jesus God.”
“The GPS beacon in the squad car went dead a few minutes later. Which usually happens only if the car’s been torched.”
“What’s the news from the Hostage Rescue Team up there? Are they safe?”
“My last report, just ten minutes ago, indicated the operation was going like clockwork. We did have an unconfirmed report of gunfire in the direction of the Dugway, two and a half miles from the airstrip. We’re contacting the team now, as we speak. But let me just assure you, Mr. President, that no disorganized mob is going
