The Dragon Factory (29 page)

Deep Iron Storage Facility

Saturday, August 28, 4:22
P.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 91 hours, 38 minutes

The satellite phone buzzed and Gunnery Sgt. Brick Anderson reached for it without taking his eyes off of the front door of the main building at Deep Iron. He identified himself and received today’s command code. When he verified it a voice said, “Hold for Mr. Church.”

A moment later Church said, “Give me a sit rep, Gunny.”

“Nothing new at this end. Captain Ledger and his team have been in the hole for seventy-one minutes and I’ve been sweating bullets for seventy of those minutes.”

“Any activity?”

“Nothing from them, and nothing from anyone else.”

Church was silent for a moment. “Very well. Listen to me, Gunny; the situation has changed. The President is awake and back in charge, though he’s still in the hospital. The Vice President has been ordered to tell the NSA to stand down.”

“Well, halle-freaking-lujah. And about goddamn time, too, sir. Company would be appreciated.”

“Agreed. I’ve notified the Hub and backup is rolling. You’ll have technical support in thirty minutes from your own office, and I’ve just gotten word that the Colorado State Police SWAT units are airborne and inbound to your twenty. ETA thirty-five minutes.”

“Orders, sir?”

“Sit tight until the backup arrives. SWAT has been informed that this is a National Security matter and that you are in charge until Captain Peterson or Ledger is located. If neither has turned up by the time SWAT arrives I want you to enter Deep Iron, assess the situation, and if there is no immediate threat I want you to locate our people.” Church paused. “I know you’re no longer on active mission status, Gunny, but I need one of my people down there to lead the search. Are you up to this?”

“Sir, I lost my leg,” Brick said, “not my trigger finger.”

“Good man. Keep me updated.”

Church disconnected the call.

Brick set the sat phone down, looked at his watch, and then leaned back into position, staring down the length of the minigun at the front door. He was relieved that the NSA problem was over, at least for now, but the bad feeling he’d had all day was still there. Stronger than ever.

ON THE FAR
side of the building two misshapen figures crawled out of an air vent and moved away, keeping low. One limped heavily from a bullet wound in his left thigh; the other staggered along behind him,
hands clamped to the ruin of his mouth. They both trailed dark blood as they went. They paused at the edge of the roof and surveyed the foothills on the far side of the facility. No one and nothing moved except withered grass in the late August breeze.

One of the figures opened a Velcro pouch on his hip and withdrew two syrettes. He handed one to his companion and they both injected a cocktail of morphine and adrenaline into their arms. Almost immediately the pain diminished to manageable levels.

The one with the injured leg pulled a sat phone from a belt holster, turned it on, checked his watch, and then punched in that hour’s frequency. The call was answered by a woman with a sensual feline voice.

“Mission accomplished.” The injured soldier’s voice was a complete contrast to the woman’s. It was deep and guttural, his words badly formed, as if his mouth and tongue were ill suited to the task.

“Status?” asked the woman.

“We’re both injured but able to move. Request extraction at the drop point.”

“How soon?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Very well.” The woman disconnected.

The man returned the sat phone to his holster, pocketed the used syrettes, and exchanged a nod with his companion. They clambered over the wall, moving as quickly as their injuries would allow, ran across the back parking lot, scaled the chain-link fence, and headed into the foothills, making maximum use of natural cover. Within minutes they were gone.

Deep Iron Storage Facility

Saturday, August 28, 5:21
P.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 90 hours, 39 minutes

The lights came on and a few moments later we heard the heavy hydraulics of the elevators. A couple of minutes later we heard voices. Muffled and distant. We checked our weapons and took up firing positions behind the stacked file boxes.

Then I heard Gunnery Sgt. Brick Anderson’s bull voice bellowing, “Bluebird!”

The cavalry had arrived.

“About damn time, too,” said Bunny.

He and Top began moving boxes away from the door. They opened it carefully and Top cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled into the echoing cavern.

“Canary!”

We heard shouting, the whirring of machines, and the sounds of men running. Brick called the challenge again and Top verified it and then opened the door as Brick rolled to a stop in a golf cart with a BAR laid across the windowless dashboard. He was surrounded by a dozen men in full SWAT rig, weapons at port arms, eyes looking at us and then past us at the dead Russians on the floor by the wall. The box covers did little to hide the raw reality of what lay beneath.

“You boys been busy,” Brick said with a grim smile.

But I shook my head. “That’s not our work, Gunny.”

“Captain Peterson?” Gunny asked, his smile beginning to dim.

I shook my head. “We’ve seen no sign of Jigsaw.”

I told Brick and the SWAT team leader an abbreviated version of what had happened, omitting what we’d found in the boxes. Brick looked stricken. The SWAT commander relayed to his men that there was at least two heavily armed hostiles in the facility. I was okay with a “shoot on sight” approach, but that was my nerves talking. My common sense told me to get prisoners we could interrogate. Answers would be nice.

The team dispersed for an active search, but I didn’t think they were going to find much.

I pulled some of the file boxes and loaded them onto Brick’s golf cart.

“Post a couple of men on this door,” I said, indicating the Haeckel bin. “Nobody gets in there, nothing gets touched, unless I give the word.”

Brick searched my face, but I wasn’t showing anything. Or I thought I wasn’t, because he saw something in my expression that darkened his. He nodded and relayed the orders to the SWAT team.

A few minutes later a technical support team from the DMS’s Denver office showed up and with them were another dozen armed soldiers from the Hub. More help was inbound from the State Police, including a full bird colonel from the National Guard and two hundred men. It sounded like a lot, but the limestone caverns were vast. The Hub communications officer told me that Jerry Spencer was airborne and heading our way, so I amended my orders to that effect. Let Jerry play with the mess.

I processed all of this, but my mind was elsewhere. That letter wouldn’t let me go. In any other circumstance it would be an historical oddity, the kind of thing a scholar could build a book around. And maybe that was all it was, but I didn’t think so. There were already way too many coincidences today, and I wasn’t buying any of them. When someone sends two armed teams to retrieve something at all costs, then that material is more than grist for a History Channel special.

Given that, the implications were staggering, and as I stood to one side and watched Brick, the Hub team, and SWAT do their jobs, I tried to make everything fit into some kind of shape. My inner cop took over and began sorting through the separate elements of the day.

Russian hit teams here and in Wilmington. The Wilmington hit had been on a guy selling pilfered medical research.
Exactly what was that research?
I wondered. Church knew and I would find out. A second Russian team here in Denver looking for old records that turn out to be—big surprise—more medical research . . . but medical research conducted by Nazi doctors in Auschwitz? Boxes and boxes of them. Statistics and results.
Zwangs/Trauma
. That had been written on one page. It was German for “forced trauma.” The notations indicated that the
results were categorized according to speed, angle, and PSI classified by chains, clubs, horsewhips, fists, bare feet, and booted feet. Extensive, thorough, and exhaustive documentation of the effects of deliberate physical abuse. Even as cynical as I’ve become, it was hard for me to grasp the scope and degree of personal corruption required to undertake such a program. That it went on for years was unspeakable.

So, if these records were real, then how the hell did Heinrich Haeckel smuggle them out of Germany after the war? This stuff should not exist, and certainly not in private storage here in the states. Yet here it was, and men were willing to kill one another to recover it, just as men were willing to torture and kill Burt Gilpin in Wilmington and shoot down my own men.

Why?

When Top and Bunny described the Wilmington incident to me they mentioned that the Russians had been downloading information from Gilpin’s hard drive. Could Gilpin, during his adventures in hacking, have somehow stumbled upon some reference to Haeckel and traced that to estate records that led the Russians to Deep Iron? Very likely. The timing certainly fit, at least as far as the Russians went.

Church had said that a Cold War–era group called the Cabal had been interested in this sort of thing, but he was convinced that the Cabal had been torn down. Was he wrong? Or had someone else picked up where the Cabal had left off? Someone who hired either the Russians or the two big bruisers to find something that was stored among these records. That seemed likely, though it still didn’t answer the question of who sent the other team.

My reverie was interrupted by Top Sims, who handed me a sat phone. “The geeks from the Hub ran a series of relays down the stairwell. Mr. Church is on the line.”

I nodded and clicked on the phone.

“You heard about the NSA?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring me up to speed.”

I did and there was a long silence at the other end. I could hear the relays clicking as Church processed it.

“I have a bunch of questions,” I began, but he cut me off.

“I’ll have a C-130 at the airport in forty minutes. I want every scrap of paper from Haeckel’s unit on that plane and heading my way asap. I want you on that plane, too.”

“What the hell’s going on?” I demanded.

“Remember when I told you that there was a worst-case scenario attached to the man in the video?”

“Yeah.”

“This is it.”

He disconnected.

I HANDED BACK
the sat phone.
Okay,
I thought, Church needed time to process things. So did I, and I was starting to see the shape of this thing. In a weird and thoroughly frightening way it was starting to take form, kind of like a monster coming slowly out of the mist. It would take a few hours for the C-130 to get us to Baltimore. Plenty of time to think this through.

The things is . . . I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be right or wrong about my suspicions. If I was wrong, then we didn’t even have this thing by the tail and we were just as much in the dark now as we were before we came to Deep Iron.

On the other hand, if I was right . . . dear God in Heaven.

Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C.

Saturday, August 28, 5:23
P.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 90 hours, 37 minutes

The President of the United States lay amid a network of tubes and monitoring cables. He was a tall, slightly built man who looked frail at the best of times, but in a hospital gown and with the aftereffects of surgery he should have looked much frailer. Instead rage made him look strong and dangerous. His dark eyes seemed to radiate real heat.

William Collins stood at the foot of the bed—he had not been
offered a seat—and endured that glare. It was nearly a full minute since he had completed his full explanation of his actions. Behind the bed a heartbeat monitor was beeping with alarming speed, but when a doctor poked his head in the President snarled at him to get out. The only person allowed to remain within earshot was Linden Brierly, Regional Director of the Secret Service.

When the President spoke, however, his voice was remarkably controlled. “That’s your story, Bill?” he asked. “You’re comfortable with that?”

“Sir,” said Collins, “that’s the truth. I acted in the best interests of the American—”

“Skip the bullshit, Bill. Be straight or we’re done here.”

“I told you the truth. My actions were based on information received that I felt was compelling and believable. I informed the Attorney General about it before I took a single action, and we agreed that it was the best and safest legal course.”

“You honestly believe that Church has a leash on me?”

“Based on the information I received, yes. How many ways would you like me to phrase it? Look . . . you can ask me to step down and I will. You can put me in front of Congress and I’ll do it without ever taking the Fifth. I’m willing to jump through any hoops you want, Mr. President, but my answer is going to be the same thing every time. The information my source brought me was compelling. It still
is
compelling.”