Enclosed in the glass booth, she dialed her Langley chief, Doug Kennedy, on a secure undersea fiber-optic cable line.
Doug’s voice was grim. “I’ve got bad news. In fact, rotten news. The surveillance and communications satellites are still offline. Worse, we’ve lost everything in orbit, both military and civilian. NASA and the Pentagon are working like demons with every tool they have, and they’re making up the rest as they go along. So far, we’re zilch, kaput, aloha, and good luck. Without those satellites, we’re blind, deaf, and dumb.”
“I get your point. What do you think I’m working on? I told you the prototype had been destroyed, period. The only thing that makes sense is that Chambord survived, although I still can’t figure out how. I also can’t figure out how he could’ve built a new prototype so fast.”
“Because he’s a genius, that’s how.”
“Even geniuses have only two arms and ten fingers and need time and materialsand a place to work. A stable place. Which brings me to my reason for calling your august self.”
“Hold the sarcasm, Russell. It gets you into trouble. What do you want?”
“Check with every asset we have on the ground within a two-hundred-mile radius of the villa and find out if they noticed, heard of, or even suspect any unusual traffic on the roads and in the ports, no matter how small, all along the coast near the villa for twelve hours after the explosion. Then do the same with everything we have, sea and air, over the Mediterranean, in the same time frame.”
“That’s all?”
She ignored the acid tone. “For now, yes. It could tell us for sure if Chambord survived.” She paused. “Or whether we’re dealing with some unknown factor, which scares the hell out of me. If he did survive, we need to know that, and where he went.”
“I’m convinced.”
“Yesterday, okay?”
“If not sooner. What about you?”
“I’ve got some other leads, unofficial, you understand?” It was total bravado. The only possible leads she had were from Peter’s highly developed, far-flung, idiosyncratic private assets, and Marty’s brain at its most manic.
“Don’t we all. Good luck, Russell.” He ended the connection.
Aloft Somewhere over Europe
Gagged and blindfolded, Jon Smith sat upright in a passenger seat at the back of a helicopter, his hands bound behind him. He was anxious and worried, his wounds aching, but still he was recording in his mind as much information as possible, while twisting his wrists against the ropes. Every once in a while, he felt the bonds loosen a bit more. It gave him hope, but Abu Auda or his men could easily discover what he had been up to when they reached wherever they were going, if he had not broken free by then.
He was in a helicopter, a large one. He could feel the throb of twin, high-powered engines. From their size, the placement of the door through which he had been shoved aboard, and the interior arrangement that he had deduced by stumbling against each row of seats as he was pushed to the rear, he figured the chopper was a Sikorsky S-70 model, known by several namesthe Seahawk in the navy, Black Hawk in the army, Pave Hawk in the air force, and Jayhawk in the coast guard.
S-70s were troop carriers and logistical aircraft, but they often carried out other duties like medical evacuation and command-and-control. He had flown in enough while in the field and during his command days courtesy of both the army and air force, with a navy chopper or two thrown into remember the details well.
After he had decided all this, he overheard Abu Auda talking nearby with one of his men. Their conversation had confirmed that it was a Sikorsky all right, but it was the S-70A model, the export version of the multimission Black Hawk. Maybe a leftover from Desert Storm, or acquired through some fellow terrorist whose day job was in the procurement division of some Islamic country’s army. In any case, it meant the chopper could easily be armed for combat, which made Jon even more uneasy. Shortly after that, Abu Auda had moved out of listening range.
Jon had been straining to hear any other talk for what he figured was nearly three hours, trying to pick up more information over the roar of the motors, but he had learned nothing useful. The chopper must be near the end of its fuel range. Then it would have to land. At the villa in Algeria, Mauritania had decided he could be useful in the future, and he must still think so, or they would have killed him. Eventually, they would get rid of him, or Abu Auda would get tired of dragging him along and kill him. Hostile witnesses made poor long-term companions.
As he was helplessly carried along in the big Sikorsky, he quit working on the ropes for a while, resting. The wound on his arm ached and burned. Still, it was superficial, more an annoyance than a danger, but it should be taken care of before infection set in. On the other hand, a much more pressing goal was simply surviving. Which brought his thoughts back again to Randi. He knew her only too well, and he was worried. Had she made it out of range before the missile hit? She would have waited for him and the Chambords as long as possible. When they had not appeared, her first instinct would have been to try to rescue them.
God in heaven, he hoped she had not. Even if she had finally realized she had to run for it, she might not have escaped in time. His mouth went dry as he recalled how close he and Theacute;regrave;se had come to dyinghellip;
hellip; Near the window of the dark villahellip;armed guards all aroundhellip;Jon and Theacute;regrave;se disarmedhellip;
Emile Chambord tells Mauritania, “The American has called in some kind of missile strike. We must leave. Tell your men to fire their weapons, make it sound like a fight. Then shout. Celebrate loudly as if you’ve killed Smith and my daughter. Hurry!”
They fire bursts. Scream their slogans. Race from the villa, herding Jon and Theacute;regrave;se toward the helipad. They reach the barracks, and the world detonates behind them. They are flung into the air. Thrown to the ground. Deafened by an explosive roar that hammers with the rush of a shock wave and tears at their clothes, their hair, their limbs. Tree branches and palm fronds fly. A massive wood door cartwheels overhead and slams down onto one of Abu Auda’s men, crushing him to death.
When the ground stops heaving, Jon staggers up, bleeding from a head wound. His left forearm burns with pain. He searches frantically for a weapon.
But Abu Auda trains his British-made assault rifle on Jon. “Don’t try, Colonel.”
The survivors crawl to their feet. Amazingly, most are still alive. Theacute;regrave;se is bleeding from her right leg. Chambord hurries to her. “Theacute;regrave;se! You’re hurt.”
She pushes him away. “I don’t know who you are anymore. You must be mad!” She turns her back and helps Jon.
Chambord watches as she rips off the sleeve of her white suit. “What I do is for the future of France, child,” he explains earnestly. “You’ll understand soon.”
“There’s nothing to understand.” She binds the wound on Jon’s arm and then the one on her leg. The blood on Jon’s forehead is a minor scratch.
Mauritania interrupts, “She’ll have to understand later, Doctor.” He gazes around with the canny expression of a feral animal. He seems to sniff the air as if he can read intelligence on it. “They may strike again. We must leave immediately.”
One of the terrorists gives a loud bellow of dismay. Everyone converges, staring at the Huey helicopter. Its rotors have been broken by debris hurled in the blast. The chopper is grounded.
Chambord decides, “There’s room for five of us in the scout helicopter. You, of course, M. Mauritania, and your pilot. Plus Captain Bonnard, Theacute;regrave;se, and I” Mauritania begins to protest. He wants more of his own people. But Chambord shakes his head firmly. “No. I need Bonnard, and I won’t leave my daughter behind. If I’m to build another prototype, I need to go where I can work. A new DNA computer is our most pressing priority. I regret there’s room for no one else, but there it is.”
Mauritania has to agree. He turns to his towering lieutenant, who has heard everything and is glowering with disapproval. “You’ll remain behind to lead the others, Abu Auda. Make arrangements to be picked up. I’ll have to take our Saudi pilot, Mohammed. He’s our best. You’ll rejoin us soon.”
“What of the American, Smith? May I kill him now? It was he who ”
” No . If he’s arranged for this missile strike, he must be even more important than I realized. You’ll keep him safe, Abu Auda.”