Blackout

CHAPTER 45

Kat finished speaking and sat back in the kitchen chair, studying Thomas Maverick’s features. He was a bear of a man, carrying close to 300 pounds on a six-foot-three frame, his face wreathed in a full beard of reddish brown and his head almost devoid of hair. He was a physicist, he’d told them, with two decades of experience in the world of “black” projects such as the Stealth B-2 bomber and others he still wasn’t free to discuss.

Dr. Maverick was rubbing his head, his eyes carefully alternating between Kat and Robert as he considered what to say.

“Okay. First, understand that I will not go to jail for talking about my project. However, I’m not muzzled with respect to other projects for which I haven’t signed secrecy oaths. And…” He held up a finger and stared at Robert. “One ground rule, Mr. MacCabe, is that this is all deep background. You ever use my name or expose me as a source and, truly, I’ll find a way to hurt you. Understood?”

Robert MacCabe caught the steely glint of Dr. Maverick’s eyes and knew he meant every word he said. He nodded immediately. “You have my word.”

Dr. Maverick nodded. “Very well. I think someone official’s trying to find me for the same reason you were. They think I know more than I do.”

“One thing first,” Kat asked. “Assuming you’re not Walter Carnegie’s deep-throat source, do you have any idea who is?”

“No. None. He wouldn’t tell me, but whoever it is, he knew this field.”

“You mentioned black projects,” Kat began.

“I never worked on lasers or beam weapons. Do I know unofficially of a black project regarding laser weapons? Yes. Did it include vital defense research into pulse beam, particle beam, charged particle, and other electromagnetic weaponry? Absolutely. Has it made several contractors very wealthy? Yes. Has the nation benefitted? Immeasurably. But are the projects sufficiently accountable to anyone but the project managers? In most cases, yes. But exceptions can occur. That’s what I believe happened with the antipersonnel laser research.”

“What? The managers lost control?”

Dr. Maverick shook his head. “No, the project developed a life of its own beyond congressional or even Defense Department control, thanks to three men in particular at the top who are quite bright, but devoid of a moral sense of what they should be doing for their country. I’ve seen a project go out of control only once before, but this one folded into another dimension, effectively disappearing from government oversight.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Kat said, watching him get up to make coffee as he talked and periodically looked out the window.

“First, you need to understand that black projects are inherently vital to our country, and they usually work very well. To develop one, it takes billions of dollars and thousands of people. The majority of the workers are civilians, like myself, willing to work in complete secrecy on narrowly defined components of a whole we do not understand and are prohibited from speculating about, in order to build something like the F-one-seventeen stealth fighter, or the B-two bomber. In the case of antipersonnel lasers, there was an accident in testing a few years ago that I’m not supposed to know about. It destroyed the eyes of a young technician who was a nephew of the President’s chief of staff, who was, and is, a very moral and humane individual. The outraged chief of staff learned the purpose of the research and convinced the President to cancel it and prohibit any such work in the future. But in doing so, the President — who was roundly despised by the defense establishment, as you know — threatened to pull several billion dollars of revenue away from the prime contractor on the black project involved.”

“So the contractor, or the black project, defied the ban?”

Dr. Maverick turned and held up an index finger. “No. Nothing that dramatic. The Pentagon rallied around the contractor and then rewrote and redirected the project so that no money or momentum was lost, but they were simply to apply their scientific knowledge and research to other, nonprohibited military applications of laser weapons. In reality, the project managers lied even to the Secretary of Defense. I know, because a good friend of mine was highly disturbed about it and had to confess it to someone. He left the project, had a nervous breakdown, and now teaches physics at a forgettable high school somewhere for a pittance.”

“So,” Kat asked, “and please forgive the interruption — they kept on with the antipersonnel side?”

He nodded. “Oh, they did new stuff, too, but they shifted the anti-eyeball research into a black hole within a black project, with plans to outlast the President.”

The coffeemaker had finished its cycle and, after Kat declined, Dr. Maverick poured a cup for Robert and himself before sitting back down.

“MacCabe, are you familiar with the Sputnik Syndrome?”

“I’m… familiar with Sputnik.”

“There are many versions of the principle. Pearl Harbor is another. In other words, in order to spark a unified determination to develop a weapon or a military capability, there has to be a substantial threat. If the threat doesn’t already exist, and you’re the national leader who knows it’s needed, you may have to invent it. That’s what I’m convinced Franklin Roosevelt did by sacrificing Pearl Harbor to get us in the war in time to win it. That was also what Sputnik did for our space program, and our military abilities in space.”

“So you’re saying—” Robert continued.

“I’m saying that up until the past few months, there has been no credible threat out there that anyone was developing anti-eyeball guns for use against military or civilian targets, and thus no reason for the new President to overrule the old ban.”

Kat had been listening in silence. She sat forward suddenly. “Wait. Are you implying that this black project will benefit from having their stolen prototypes used against civilian airliners?”

Dr. Maverick smiled. “Think about the predictable response when these mysterious crashes are revealed as being caused by such lasers. Publicly, there will be a call for an international ban on research. Privately — secretly — we already have advanced technology and can press forward to dominate the science while pretending to adhere to our own international ban. In addition, we’ll also be ahead in developing solid defenses against such weapons. We’ll order thousands of weapons produced and stockpiled, and more research done, in order to be ready if someone violates the ban. We did the same thing with biological and chemical weaponry.”

“And the contractor survives.”

Dr. Maverick nodded. “The contractor survives, in the best interests of the country.”

“So this black project may have helped lose those weapons?”

He shook his head. “Not directly. But if antipersonnel laser weapons were stolen and sold on the black market, as Carnegie suspected, the black-project managers would know two things. One, they were early prototypes and quite limited versus what could be developed later. And two, it would only be a matter of time before some military or terrorist group used one and created a new Sputnik Syndrome, thus rescuing them from the shadowy netherworld of project shutdown.”

“We think,” Kat said, meeting his eyes, “that Walter Carnegie made a good case that the U.S. government may be engaged in a frantic effort following the SeaAir crash to cover up the theft of those weapons, because they said nothing and did nothing for so long. But you’re implying the black-project managers may not have wanted anything done about the theft.”

“They may not have even reported the weapons were stolen, Agent Bronsky,” Dr. Maverick said. “This may be less a cover-up than an embarrassed nonresponse.”

“Then, who do you think,” Robert began, his eyes darting between Kat and Dr. Maverick, “is chasing us?”

Dr. Maverick raised his bushy eyebrows and glanced around again, paying particular attention to the living room windows. “The terrorists who stole those weapons would be the most likely candidates, but… I don’t know. Look, you can’t work in the black-project world without getting a bit paranoid about our own security. I mean, who’s chasing whom? A bunch of suits have been ricocheting around Vegas looking for me, according to friends. Are they terrorists, or are they our own people?”

“What do you mean, Doctor? Security people? I can tell you they aren’t FBI.”

He licked his lips and looked out the rear window before answering. “I don’t know. But someone was obviously scared enough of Walter Carnegie to kill him.”

“You know that for a…” Robert began, but Maverick was shaking his head no.

“I only know that Walter would never kill himself. Look, can we get out of here? I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but I’d prefer to close this place up and go. I was only coming by for supplies when I spotted the light.”

Kat was drumming her fingers on the table. “Dr. Maverick, are you familiar with Jordan James?”

There was no particular reaction other than mild surprise, she noticed. He nodded after thinking for a few seconds. “Yes. CIA director a few years back, right?”

“Yes, but now acting Secretary of State.” She filled him in on their relationship before looking at her watch. “He should be arriving here in a few minutes.”

Maverick looked startled. “What? Here? My house?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

The sound of an engine and the crunching sound of tires on snow reached their ears simultaneously, the headlights showing through the window of the living room.

She watched as Jordan left the backseat of the car and walked quickly to the front door, buttoning his heavy overcoat. The car remained in front, its driver leaving the parking lights on and the engine idling as Kat introduced Jordan to Thomas Maverick and Robert MacCabe.

“I need to talk with you in private, Kat,” Jordan said, as they stood awkwardly in the tiny hallway. “If you folks will excuse us for a few minutes…”

She borrowed one of Dr. Maverick’s parkas and motioned Jordan through the back door. The first hint of dawn was lightening the sky to the east, but the woods behind the house were still dark and secluded. The blanket of new snow absorbed their voices. They walked in silence for about a hundred feet to one side of the cabin before Kat turned to him. “What is it, Uncle Jordan?”

He chewed his lip for a moment before responding. “Kat, I know for a fact there’s a renegade group within the FBI working for Nuremberg. Whoever they are, they’ve been seduced with the promise of untold riches.”

Kat unconsciously leaned away from Jordan, her eyes wide, remembering her impassioned defense of the Bureau. Robert was just a reporter. But this man was not only like family, he was a high-ranking official of the U.S. government. Loyalty to the Bureau alone couldn’t dismiss the force of his words.

Kat shook her head. “But how, Jordan? Why? And for what?”

He patted her arm. “Human nature requires bad apples, Kat, and the old adage that everyone has a price is distressingly true. The Bureau is no exception.”

“You’re saying—” she began. “Wait a minute. You’re saying there’s a faction of how many?”

He shook his head. “At least two or three, and they’re probably fairly high up. The cooperation they’re providing includes support such as IDs, the creation of agents that don’t exist, giving these fake agents the intelligence information they need, and probably communications interception. That’s why every call you made to Jake Rhoades was fed immediately to those who were trying to silence all of you. Precisely what this Nuremberg group is going to demand, none of us knows, but they’re incredibly well financed, and they’ve bought their way into the Bureau. I know that’s hard to accept, Kat, but you must.”

She was breathing rapidly, her mind racing to get a logical grasp of what he was saying and how it could happen.

“As we speak, Nuremberg’s agents could be closing in on this place. We’ve got to get you, and Mr. MacCabe, and Dr.… Maverick, was it?”

“Yes.”

“All of you back to my Air Force jet. They’re waiting in Boise for me to call. As long as you’re under my protection aboard that jet, they won’t touch you.”

“Why not?” The question had popped out of her mouth, bypassing the normal filter of respect and deference she felt for Jordan James.

He hesitated before replying, as if startled by the question. He stopped patting her arm for a moment, then resumed. “Because, Kat, there is a vast difference between attacking a civilian airliner and attacking one of the presidential fleet. The former will get a unified response of governmental and law enforcement determination to capture and prosecute, but the latter will unleash the fury of the U.S. military. Only the certifiably insane among terrorist organizations would engage the latter.”

She nodded. The explanation largely made sense.

“I decided there was no one I could fully trust to come get you other than myself,” he said. “That’s why…”

Kat grabbed his sleeve and motioned for silence. She was looking intently toward the road in front of the cabin. In the growing light of dawn, she could just make out the dark shape of the Lincoln sedan that had brought Jordan as it idled in front.

“What?” he asked in a low voice.

“Sh-h-h!” she replied, kneeling down for a second and pulling him with her, her eyes riveted on the car. “Your car,” she whispered.

The front door of the car closed and a figure slid behind the wheel.

Maybe the driver got out for a moment, she thought.

But there was movement around the back of the car. Two figures, in fact, dragging something down the road and into the trees. With a start she realized they were dragging a body. Jordan James stiffened beside her as he, too, realized what they were seeing.

“Jordan, stay here. I’ll get Robert and the doctor out of there.”

“Then what?” he asked.

She shook her head and took off in a crouch toward the rear of the house. He saw her go in, watched several lights go out in the back, and more come on in the front of the house before realizing that the three of them had slipped out the back door and were running toward him, carrying their bags. As they reached James’s position, Robert finished fastening the hooks over the zipper of the oversized coat he had borrowed.

“Who are they?” Dr. Maverick asked, panting.

Kat shook her head. “I don’t know, but what’s behind your place? Any roads or police stations or anything?”

“No. Nothing. About a mile from here there’s a small shopping center, but it’s too far to walk through the woods.”

Another vehicle had turned the far corner of the road and was moving toward the house, slowing as it came. It stopped a hundred yards away, behind another parked vehicle, and killed its lights, but no one got out.

“Reinforcements,” Kat whispered. “It may not take them long to figure out we’ve left.” She turned to Dr. Maverick. “Does anyone around here have a car we could appropriate? And is there another way out of here?”

He thought for a few seconds, then pointed to the other side of the cabin. “Through that patch of woods, there’s a house with a detached garage that has a small snow tractor — a Sno-Cat, I think they call it. It can seat six people. But I don’t know if it’ll start, and we’d have to break in.”

“Would the owner be around?”

“No. Not this time of year. He spends November and December in France.”

“Let’s go,” Kat replied, letting Dr. Maverick move out first.

The lock on the garage was stout, but the screws on the hinge were weak enough to wrench free with the handle of a rake, and there was enough room for all four in the cab. Kat jumped behind the wheel, relieved to find the ignition didn’t require a key.

“How do we get out of here?” she asked as the engine rumbled to life.

“Right turn out of his driveway.”

The answer momentarily stopped her. “That would take us past your house!”

“No other way… oh! Of course. It’s a Sno-Cat. Turn left. We’ll crush a few gardens, but there’s another road about three hundred yards in that direction.”

“I’m going to keep the lights off,” Kat said, slipping the machine in gear and moving out of the garage. “It’s getting close to sunrise anyway.”

The sound of an engine in the predawn quiet caught the immediate attention of Arlin Schoen as he crouched behind one of the rented Suburbans. He lifted a small radio transceiver to his mouth. “What is that?”

“Don’t know,” the answer came back. “It’s a block or more away. Sounds like a road grader or snowplow.”

Schoen thought for a second, studying the bright lights in the living room of the Maverick cabin. He lifted the radio again. “How many do you see inside the house now?”

“Ah, at the moment, maybe one. Hard to tell. I see no movement.”

“Anyone talking?”

“No. They’re probably whispering.”

“Anyone watching the back?” Schoen snapped, standing bolt upright.

“No. We can see the back door through the front windows.”

“They’ve left, you idiots!” Schoen growled, and turned to the others. “Get in! Head for the sound of that motor.” He raised the radio to his mouth again as he climbed in. “Move in on the house. Now! Report back.”

The engine of the Suburban roared to life and the lights came on. The driver fishtailed away from the side of the street and accelerated as much as he dared. The headlights were picking up nothing as they crested a small rise on the other side of the cabin and followed the road to the left, braking hard to avoid sliding through a grove of trees at the end.

“This is a damn dead end. Where’s that sound coming from?” Arlin Schoen asked, leaping out to stand on the running board and listen. The engine could be heard in the distance ahead, moving away, but also to the right.

He jumped back in and slammed the door. “Turn around! Turn around! There’s got to be a road over there.”

The radio crackled to life as they roared past the house again. “Ah… you were right. There’s no one inside.”

“Find MacCabe’s damned computer and follow us!” Schoen barked.

“There’s a larger road just beyond,” Thomas Maverick said. “If we get to it and go a couple of hundred yards, we can go across meadows toward the town.”

“Which way to the airport?” Kat asked.

“Same way.”

“What are you thinking, Kat?” Jordan asked.

She turned partially in his direction as she kept the machine moving steadily forward. “Can you call your Gulfstream back? I’ve got my phone…” she offered.

Jordan pulled out a small digital cell phone. “I’ve got one.” He dialed in the appropriate number and made the necessary arrangements, then disconnected.

“They’ll be here in an hour and a half.”

Kat glanced at him with a stricken look on her face. “That won’t be soon enough.”