Death Angel (24 page)

Such awesome power was reserved solely for the President in his role of Commander in Chief, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

But PALO had a sinister corollary. Just as it could be used to override and abort an authorized PAL-input launch, the reverse was true. The PALO codes could be reverse-engineered to trigger an unauthorized nuclear launch.

In the year 2000, Nordquist’s cadre at INL had been given the assignment of tweaking the PALO codes, refining, hardening, and improving the product. This was done over the course of several years. The new, improved PALO codes were then submitted to the custodianship of the Joint Chiefs.

But the data—oceans of it; seas of zeroes and ones whose sum total added up to overlordship of America’s atomic arsenal—remained on the INL computer system.

Buried and locked up tight, so the guardians believed.

Carlson knew better.

“The PALO codes! Here was a prize worthy of my talents,” he said. “A star-high goal. A Promethean quest. For endless years I endured the petty, bureaucratic vultures gnawing at my innards, tearing at my guts. Why? Because I had a purpose.

“I copied them—the PALO codes. Computations so big they took years to steal. Swiping a few screens of data here, a few there. Encoding them so they looked like something else, seemingly innocuous files from a host of unrelated projects.

“I salted them throughout the network, parking them for future retrieval.

“Copying, encrypting and moving them was the easy part. The hard part was the downloads. They were more closely tracked by our departmental network with its surveillance programs and by OCI’s watchdogs. I took out the data bit by bit, block by block, piecemeal. Then reassembled them with my home computers.

“At times it felt like trying to drain the sea by carrying away a bucket of water at a time. It took years, almost a decade to do it properly without tripping any alarms. A supreme exercise in self-control. Will. One piggish excess of too much data downloaded at once might have upset all my plans. But I persevered.

“Now, they’re mine. What do you think the governments of the world will pay for them? To render America’s nuclear deterrent worse than useless—dangerous? A double-edged sword about to rebound on its wielder.

“What do you think about that, Glen?”

Nordquist’s reply was straightforward and instinctive. “Carlson, you’re fired. You’ll be reported to OCI and the appropriate steps taken. Now get out.”

Carlson preened with self-importance and droll bemusement. “Glen, you’re beautiful. Talk about running true to type! You’re priceless, you really are. Blinkered, hide-bound, pettifogging—

“You haven’t been listening, Glen. You’re not in control here. I am. You couldn’t contact OCI now even if you wanted to. Through my computer I control all. I’ve blocked you from all outside contact. There’ll be no interruptions to this final little chat of ours.”

“I’m curious about one thing, Carlson. What’s the point of this exercise? What do you hope to gain from this pathetic confession of yours, apart from a life sentence in a federal super-max prison? Or, more likely, confinement to an insane asylum?”

“A fair question. Mainly I did it just for the doing of it. To show it could be done and that I’m the one who could do it. Me, Hugh Carlson, the smartest of them all. And then of course there’s the rewards, the glittering prizes, treasure houses plundered. World-shattering power at my fingertips—”

Carlson jabbed a pointing index finger at Nordquist’s monitor screen. “My little joke, to give you a taste of what I can do. It should say, ‘Hello, Stupid—and Goodbye.’ That’s what this is: goodbye.

“My only regret is that you won’t be around to see the results of my wizardry. It’ll be a real game changer. Argus, Perseus, everything you’ve worked all your life to achieve will be so much dust in the wind. Meaningless.

“Seventy years of Los Alamos product. Millions of man-hours of calculation and computation, trillions of defense dollars spent in building and refining our intercontinental ballistic missile fleet, the linchpin of America’s nuclear deterrent.

“Overthrown by one man—me! Talk about a New World Order! Too bad you won’t be around to see it. You can go to hell knowing you’ve seen true genius at work—”

Nordquist’s computer was equipped with a portable keyboard for greater mobility at his workstation. Carlson grabbed the keyboard with both hands. He raised it high and brought it down hard, clubbing Nordquist on top of his head.

The impact drove Nordquist deeper into his seat. Pieces of plastic broke and went flying, as did numbered and lettered keys.

Carlson struck again, opening a wide gash in Nordquist’s scalp. Blood flowed. Nordquist’s glasses broke in half at the nosepiece and went flying off his face. Sinking, failing, he raised his hands in a weak and futile attempt to protect himself.

Carlson battered, grunting each time he brought the keyboard down. Nordquist slumped in his chair, dazed, semi-conscious.

Carlson tossed aside the remains of the keyboard and lunged at Nordquist with both hands. An expression of fiendish malignity stamped his face.

Big hands circled Nordquist’s thin neck and squeezed. Fingers sinking deep into flesh. Throttling. Shaking the other while strangling him, like a terrier worrying a rat clenched between its jaws.

Nordquist’s bloody face darkened, eyes bulging, tongue protruding. Carlson leaned forward, putting his weight into it. Nordquist felt the room spinning around him, consciousness dimming.

Nordquist looked up at the faces of his listeners: pale, strained ovals. The auditors were motionless, silent. All except Whitcomb. The SECTRO Force commander was breathing gustily through his mouth.

“I thought I was dying. But I didn’t die. The next thing I knew, this young man was trying to bring me around,” Nordquist said, indicating Jack Bauer.

“Carlson did all this? Hugh Carlson?” Whitcomb asked, incredulous.

“That’s what I said,” Nordquist snapped, with a touch of his characteristic asperity. Jack thought that was a good sign that Nordquist was rallying and was going to make it.

“Carlson has the PALO codes?” Orne Lewis asked.

“He said he did,” Nordquist replied.

“Do you believe him?”

“He’s not without a certain facility in computer technology,” Nordquist said, almost grudgingly.

“Does he have the skills to steal the codes?”

“Yes. Do I believe he did it? Yes—not because of what he said but what he did,” Nordquist said. “Carlson’s a time server. He’s always had his eyes on the main chance, the sure thing. He wouldn’t have burned his bridges without being damned sure he had something better lined up.”

Nordquist’s head sank back into the cushioned headrest. Debra Derr leaned in.

“Is there anything else you can think of that might tell us what Carlson is going to do next? Anything he might have said?” she asked.

Nordquist weakly shook his head no. His heavy-lidded eyes fluttered. He fought to keep them open. “That’s all I know. I’m afraid I’m a poor prophet when it comes to predicting Hugh Carlson’s next move. I didn’t see this coming. Never thought he had it in him, to tell the truth.”

Dr. Brand pleaded, “We need to get this man to a hospital.” The paramedics were wide-eyed, stiff-faced. They’d understood enough of Nordquist’s narrative to realize that they’d brushed up against weighty matters indeed.

“Everything that you’ve seen and heard here tonight is classified. Divulging this information to any unauthorized
persons is a federal offense,” Debra Derr said, speaking to Brand and the paramedics.

“We’re all aware, we’ve been called to the facility before,” Brand said.

“We’ll get you the confidentiality documents to sign later,” Derr said.

Brand motioned the paramedics to get moving.

As he was being wheeled away on the stretcher, Nordquist fired a parting shot at the security contingent. “You’ll get him,” he said confidently. “Carlson always was a second-rater. A bungler! Why, he couldn’t even manage to kill me properly—”

Nordquist was wheeled out of the control room and into the hall, to take the elevator to the ground floor and the ambulance waiting outside.

“I’ll let the boys know they’re coming down,” Whitcomb said. He spoke into his cell phone. “Dr. Brand is coming down with Nordquist to take him to City Hospital. Let them through to the ambulance. Have one of our men accompany them to the hospital. Send along a couple more men in a separate car as an escort. They can guard Nordquist at the hospital. Make sure the doctor and the two paramedics do not say anything or contact anyone on the outside. We can’t take any risks. Call me from the hospital with a situation report.”

Whitcomb put away his cell. “A patient like Nordquist is a security nightmare. The things he knows should stay locked up in his head. Doctors, nurses, orderlies will all have to be screened and debriefed.”

“Just be glad that Nordquist is alive. We can’t afford to lose a mind like that—a man like that,” Jack Bauer said.

“Lucky that Carlson botched killing Nordquist.”

“No, and he didn’t kill Hickman or Harry Stempler, either. He had an accomplice working with him tonight to handle the rough stuff. The one who lured McCoy and me
into the Snake Pit while Carlson locked us in and turned the laser on us.”

“Can you identify him, Jack?” Orne Lewis asked.

Jack shook his head. “I never got a good look at him.”

A thought occurred to him and he amended his statement. “If it is a him. It could have been a her for all I know. Whoever it was could shoot, though—pretty damned accurate with a handgun.”

“He’d have to be good to take Hickman. Hickman was nobody’s fool.”

“That was a loss,” Jack said, his expression sour. “The shooter was someone who knew his way around the LRF. That lets out the usual run of thugs and killers.”

Whitcomb was restless, agitated. “What about Carlson? Where is he and how do we find him?”

“When you figure that out let me know,” Orne Lewis said.

“Carlson had time to make his getaway,” Jack said. “It took me a good twenty minutes to break out of the Snake Pit. His control of the security system let him laugh at locked doors and scanner readers. He got out of the building through a side door, got into his car, and exited the main gate in the usual manner.”

“But Sabito contacted OCI with orders to hold Carlson and Nordquist.”

Debra Derr cleared her throat. That got the others’ attention. “Sabito told Director McCoy to make sure that neither of those scientists left the building.

“McCoy instructed the guards in the lobby at the front entrance to detain Carlson or Nordquist if they tried to leave. That’s the normal way in and out of the building for staffers. There’s plenty of fire exit doors in the main building and the LRF but none of them can be used without setting off an alarm. McCoy didn’t bother to instruct the gate guards to detain Carlson or Nordquist. He didn’t think they
would get that far. No one knew that the security system had been compromised and that Carlson could neutralize the scanner readers to enter and exit as he pleased.”

Jack nodded. “Carlson exited undetected by a side door, got into his car, and drove out the main gate.”

“And his accomplice?” Debra Derr asked.

“Carlson might have taken him out in his car. The other could have hid under a blanket in the backseat or in the trunk. Cars aren’t searched on their way out.”

“Or he may still be inside the building,” Whitcomb said excitedly.

“It’s possible,” Jack deadpanned.

That produced an awkward silence. Debra Derr was the first to break it. “Proceeding at the speed limit, Carlson could have reached the badge holders’ road portal at the west end of Corona Drive within ten minutes—well before the alert was put out on him and his car. They don’t stop badge holders at the exit. We have to assume that Carlson got clear of South Mesa and is somewhere at large outside the security perimeter.”

“With the PALO codes,” Orne Lewis said.

Whitcomb ground a fist into his palm. “Hugh Carlson’s going to be the object of the largest manhunt in history. He’ll be the most wanted man alive since Osama bin Laden.”

“With better results, I hope,” said Jack Bauer.

3:44
A.M
. MDT
Wind Farm, Los Alamos County

“Here’s a hot one, Jack:

“One of our informants tipped us that Adam Zane entered the country illegally tonight. He flew in on a private plane from Mexico. A twin-prop job, make and model unknown. It landed on a highway out in the boondocks outside Laredo, where it was refueled and took off again. We had a confidential informant on the service crew handling the refueling job. Zane’s destination is Los Alamos. He’ll be landing at a private strip at the Wind Farm, that alternate energy site owned by T. J. Henshaw that went bust.

“Sorry we couldn’t get this to you sooner but our man on the service crew wasn’t able to get away and report until now. We’ll keep you posted on any details as they come in. Hope this is of some use to you.”

That was the message posted on Jack Bauer’s voice mail by Bert Leeds, SAC of CTU’S El Paso office.

“Think it’s a good tip, Jack?” Orne Lewis asked.

“One of CTU/ELP’s primary missions is to watch the border for spies, saboteurs, and terrorists trying to sneak into the country from Mexico. That’s always been the nightmare, that a suicide squad of jihadists or al-Qaeda red-hots would enter the U.S. via the southern corridor. Leeds runs a tight ship with a powerful network of informants on both sides of the border.

“The wisest course is for us to check it out first. Without making too big a fuss that would divert resources from the search for Carlson. If the tip pans out, we can call for backup as needed. If not, no harm done. Besides, the fewer people who know about it, the less chance of Adam Zane being tipped off deliberately or by accident and taking evasive measures.

“Right now only two people in Los Alamos know about it—you and me,” Jack Bauer said.

Jack was glad of the chance to be in action again. It beat sitting around stewing at the OCI office at Ironwood wondering where Dr. Hugh Carlson was to be found. He also welcomed the opportunity of putting some distance between himself and Vince Sabito. The murder of Special Agent Hickman was sure to enrage Sabito and inflame his suspicions to fever pitch.

Jack had enough on his plate now without butting heads with Sabito. He didn’t want the Zane lead trashed by the overzealous participation of the FBI, either.

The new lead sent Jack and Orne Lewis racing through the night to the Wind Farm. They took Lewis’s car. Lewis drove.

The dashboard-mounted digital media station’s two-way radio was set to the police band frequency. An all-points bulletin had been put out alerting all city, county, and state
law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for Dr. Hugh Carlson. His description and that of his vehicle along with its license plate numbers were circulated as part of the BOLO—be-on-the-lookout—alert.

The authorities were moving fast to cordon off the county, blocking all roads.

U.S. Army Military Police were in transit to assist in the blockade. The Posse Comitatus Act prohibits the military from participating in civilian law enforcement operations. But the pilfered PALO codes were a matter of the highest national security. Therefore the strictures of the act were suspended and the MPs were joining the search.

The ongoing firestorm was both hindrance and help in the manhunt. The blaze created chaos and disorder, stretching law enforcement ranks thin. On the other hand, the law in Los Alamos County had already been reinforced by police and deputies from neighboring counties volunteering to help out. The many roadblocks that had been established throughout the disaster area to bar civilians from the fire zone and assure swift passage for first responders would serve as so many checkpoints screening the roads and searching for Carlson.

Proceedings were in the works to have the air space over Los Alamos County and environs declared off-limits to any unauthorized aircraft. Once invoked, the ban would be enforced by nearby Kirtland Air Force Base, whose fighter pilots would be instructed to shoot down any aircraft that were in noncompliance and refused to obey orders to identify themselves and land at the nearest airfield for inspection.

Lewis exited Corona Drive through the west gate, leaving South Mesa behind. An access road put his vehicle on Highway 5 South.

“It can’t be coincidence that Adam Zane arrives on the
scene just when Carlson makes his big break,” Jack Bauer said.

Lewis looked away from the highway ahead for an instant to cut a glance at Jack. He was excited. “The legendary Adam Zane!—One of the world’s leading traders in stolen secrets. I’ve heard about him for years. He’s been sighted in London, Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo, and Beijing. Even Washington, D.C., on several occasions. But I never thought he’d turn up in the godforsaken New Mexico high desert of Los Alamos.”

“Probably neither did he,” Jack said. “That’s good for us. Only something as big as the PALO codes could lure him out of his usual haunts, to risk his skin by coming here in person.”

“I just hope it’s not a bum tip.”

“You and me both. Right now it’s the best thing we’ve got. This is a big county with lots of places for Carlson to hide in.”

Lewis shook his head, his expression one of grim certainty. “Not for long. Carlson’s strictly a city boy. No outdoorsman he. He’d be as out of place in the backcountry as a Gila monster at the Santa Fe Civic Opera.”

“Not if he hooks up with the Blancos. They’ve got plenty of hideouts where they could stash him safely for a long time.”

“The gang may have bitten off more than they can chew, Jack. This isn’t one of the usual thug crime capers they’re used to. The big heat is going to come down on them. Between the carrot of big rewards and the stick of life in a federal max prison unit, all but the most committed hard core of the gang is going to have plenty of incentive to roll over on their comrades,” Lewis said.

“On the other hand, some of that Blanco hard core is pretty hard,” he added.

New Mexico, Land of Enchantment. Enchantment? The bleak, rocky lunar landscape through which Lewis’s car now coursed seemed not so much enchanted as haunted. No other vehicles were in sight on the empty ribbon of road.

To the northeast, the firestorm could be seen as a black smoky sky veined by red and orange streaks and infused with a glow from the inferno below. Rocky scarps and ridges hid the burning hills from view of the car going south on Highway 5. The fire glow shone on the canopy of black smoke streaming overhead.

Smoke haze from the fire had diffused west of the blaze, blurring the scene on Highway 5 and filling the air with the smell of burning. The car windows were rolled up and the air-conditioning was turned on but they couldn’t keep out the smell of burning.

The Wind Farm was located on a rise west of the road. It was the brainchild of T. J. Henshaw, a magnate who’d made big money in oil, aircraft, and electronics. He’d gotten into alternative energy production in a big way. He planned to use windmills to generate electricity to supply the power needs of outlying ranches and suburban residential districts in the county and ultimately the city of Los Alamos. Leaving the more expensive coal-and petroleum-fueled power plants to supply the voracious needs of the laboratory complex on South Mesa. Thereby combining profit and patriotism.

Henshaw had built several dozen titan wind turbines on a piece of property with a western exposure in an open and unblocked notch pass in the Jemez Mountains. The north by northeast winds funneling through the gap would create a Venturi effect that would give an added boost to the wind turbines.

The economic crash had put an end to Henshaw’s dreams of a wind-powered windfall. The recession had trashed his extensive financial and real estate holdings and wiped out his
fortune. The Wind Farm had gone bust. Now it was in foreclosure, owned by banks that didn’t know what to do with it.

Repossession companies had carted away the generators and miles of copper cable and wiring. They couldn’t carry away the wind turbines. It would have cost more to tear them down and truck them out than whatever the sale of the scrap metal would have brought. The wind turbines were left in place. In this arid climate, it would be a long time before they rusted away.

The car neared the Wind Farm. It lay on the right, an eerie sight. The property was set several hundred yards back from Highway 5. A paved two-lane road ran from the highway to the property.

Before he went bust, Henshaw had been a high flyer. Literally. He did a lot of traveling by private plane between his various properties in the Southwest. Like the others, the Wind Farm had its own landing strip.

It ran parallel to the highway and lay between it and the wind turbines. A wood frame building stood at the strip’s northeast corner. Its windows were squares of light. A couple of vehicles were parked beside it.

Lewis slowed, making a right-hand turn on to the road leading to the strip. He didn’t bother to use a turn signal. Jack Bauer pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster and held it in his lap.

The car cruised toward the runway. The building was a one-story white wooden frame structure, a shack. A flood-light was fixed in the middle of the eave of the roof, shedding a glowing cone of radiance in front of the door. A plane stood on the runway near the shack, a modest-sized job with twin propellers.

To the left of the shack stood a pair of gas pumps on a small, oval concrete island. A lamppost stood between the two pumps. It was about eight feet tall and had a pair of
electric lights at the top, arranged so that each lamp shone on a pump.

None of the lights, on the shack or the pumps, was overly bright. They were dim, minimal, so as not to draw attention to themselves.

Beyond the landing strip, a hundred yards back and west of it, stood the wind turbines, a steel forest of them. There were about two dozen metal poles, each fifty feet high and fitted with four rotors each. Some of the rotors made X-shapes; others made crosses.

The car neared the shack. The windows were open, covered by shades on the inside. Two figures came out the front door. A third stood outlined in the open doorway.

The car rolled to a halt, its front pointed at the shack. Headlights shone on it, outlining the men. The passenger side, Jack’s side, faced the two men standing in front of the shack.

One was an uncouth, hulking figure. He wore a baseball cap and a pair of blue denim bib overalls. He was carrying a shotgun, a wicked pump-action piece.

The other man was small, neat, compact. Jockey-sized. He was bareheaded, short-haired, and clean-shaven, with a thin, angular face. He wore a black bow tie, a thin black vest over a white short-sleeved shirt, and black pants. He looked like a waiter or a member of a catering service. Except for the gun he wore in a shoulder holster rig.

The third man was an indistinct figure, a black silhouette framed and backlit by the doorway.

The hulk in the farmer overalls held the shotgun under his arm, pointed down at the ground. Jack wasn’t fooling around with any shotguns. He knew what they could do.

“Hit the high beams,” he said.

Lewis switched on the beams, flooding the shack and the men with harsh glare. Jack Bauer got out of the car and pointed his gun at the man with the shotgun. Fast, all in one motion.

“Easy, fella,” the man with the bow tie said.

“Drop that shotgun,” Jack said.

“Like hell!” the man in the overalls said. He started to swing the shotgun up.

Jack shot him twice in the torso. The big man dropped without firing a shot.

Lewis got out of the car with drawn gun. The man in the doorway ducked back into the shack, out of sight.

The bow-tied man stood very still, motionless. Lewis ran to the left side of the shack, to the window. Jack sidestepped, putting the bow-tied man between him and the shack. The other raised his hands in an I-surrender gesture.

The man in the shack picked up a machine gun and went to the window on the left-hand side of the front door. He thrust its snout outside, into the open.

The bow-tied man glanced over his shoulder, saw what the other was doing. “Hoke, don’t!” he shouted, panicked.

Lewis reached in through the side window and shot Hoke. Hoke staggered sideways. He turned, swinging the machine gun toward Lewis. He stumbled in front of the open doorway.

Jack shot him twice. Hoke fell backward, finger tightening on the trigger. He sprayed an arc of machine gun fire up a wall and into the roof as he fell back. He hit the floor, thrashing. Lewis fired again. Hoke stopped thrashing, stopped shooting, stopped living.

Jack stood hunched in a combat crouch, arms extended in front of him, elbows slightly bent, one hand pointing the gun at Hoke, the other steadying his gun hand.

“That’s all of them,” Lewis said. He rounded the corner of the shack, crossing in front of it. “The one inside’s finished, but I’ll check anyway,” he said.

He went into the shack, hunkering down beside Hoke. He felt his neck for a pulse. “Stone dead,” Lewis said.

Jack pointed the gun at the bow-tied man’s head, went to
him. He shucked the other’s gun out of its shoulder holster and tossed it away into the weeds. He gave him a quick frisk for concealed weapons, found none.

The bow-tied man had thin hair, a pointy nose, a thin slitted mouth, and a pointy chin. His eyes were wide, bulging. They stood out against his pale flesh. It would have been normal for anyone to be pale under the circumstances, but the bow-tied man had the slick, waxy whiteness of one who has gone for long months without seeing too much sun.

Jack figured him for a jailbird.

The other swallowed hard a couple of times, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He still held his arms in the hands-up position. “You crazy? What’d you kill ’em for?” he asked, his voice thin, reedy.

“They were waving too many guns around,” Jack said.

“You’re in big trouble, friend.”

“Not as big as you.”

“You came to the wrong place. Nothing here worth stealing.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Hired to keep away trespassers and vandals.”