Medusa's Child

EIGHT

One of the sixteen men and women working telephones and computer terminals in the tense atmosphere of the conference room spoke a few words into a receiver and turned to the man in charge.

"I've got him. Line three, sir."

Tony DiStefano, the assistant director of the FBI, flashed a thumbs-up sign and grabbed a telephone.

"ScotAir?"

"Yes?"

"You're"—he consulted a hastily scribbled note—"Captain McKay? Scott McKay?"

"Yes. Who're you?"

DiStefano identified himself and the fact that FBI headquarters in Washington had taken over control of the crisis.

"Okay," the pilot said. "What do you want us to do? Since you're in D.C., you know the winds are getting pretty high."

"We know, Captain, but we're going to bring you down at Patuxent River Naval Air Station. You know the place?"

The mention of the Navy's flight test center some fifty miles southeast of the Beltway on Chesapeake Bay was startling. "I know it well, but why Pax River?" Scott asked. It would be even closer to the oncoming hurricane.

"Because," the FBI official replied, "that's the only place close enough that has the equipment to examine your cargo."

Tony DiStefano braced for the question he knew would crackle through the pilot's mind. A few seconds of silence passed before the captain replied.

"Ah, Director DiStefano, was it?"

"Yes, but that's Assistant Director. I'm under the Deputy Director."

"Okay," Scott began. "Your man in Miami said you were looking for hazardous material. Now you want us to fly closer to that hurricane because you've got special equipment at Pax River. What kind of equipment, Mr. DiStefano? What is it, exactly, that you think we've got on board?"

"Captain, I'd rather not…"

"No, dammit! I need to know what I'm dealing with up here. I haven't checked the winds at Pax River, but they've got to be scary by now. Before I go try to land there, I want a straight answer. What on earth do you think we've got on board this airplane?"

In the cockpit of ScotAir 50 Scott McKay realized he was holding his breath. Dr. Linda McCoy was standing beside him, trying to listen.

Somehow the FBI already believed that the contents of Vivian Henry's cargo were dangerous, but how dangerous? If Vivian's cargo was really nothing more than a mockup being used in an elaborate hoax as she believed, why was the FBI involved?

Or could the contraband be in Linda's cargo without her knowledge? After all, her stuff came in from South America.

When the call began, Linda McCoy pointed to the handset and Scott kept the receiver turned slightly so she could press her ear against the edge of it and hear, too, her face occasionally touching his as they stood in the small aisle way behind the flight engineer's seat trying to brace themselves against the continuous turbulence. Somehow the feeling of her hair on the side of his face— the nearness of her—was comforting.

Scott realized he was shaking slightly inside. The suspicion that he was dealing with something far beyond his control was making it difficult to stay focused. He would have to tell DiStefano about the container and the screen and the warning messages, but first he needed to know precisely what it was that had spooked the Federal Bureau of Investigation of the United States.

Tony DiStefano's staff was used to his progressive signals of internal upheaval, from the rhythmic patting of his bald head to the rubbing of his brow. For the last few seconds he'd progressed to furiously rubbing his eyes as he tried to decide how much to tell the captain.

If I want this guy's complete cooperation, I've got to be straight with him.

DiStefano took a deep breath, steadied himself, and picked up the receiver again.

"Captain, based on some very sophisticated detection equipment at Miami and what it recorded this morning when you left, we believe there's something in your airplane that may be extremely dangerous, ah, nuclear material."

DiStefano could hear another voice, a female voice, murmur something in the background before the captain replied.

"Uh, Mr. DiStefano, when you say nuclear material, do you mean something like plutonium?"

DiStefano glanced at his resident nuclear expert, an agent who had been directed to listen in on another extension. The man nodded.

"Yes, Captain, that's exactly the category we're talking about. Are you familiar with such material?"

"Only as a layman."

Tony DiStefano motioned to the agent to get a pen and pick up the extension. "Captain, by the way, can you give me the full names of everyone on board, including your two passengers?"

Scott passed all five names. They were entered in the FBI's computer system immediately and several other agents shot out of the room in pursuit of background information. DiStefano cleared his throat and repositioned the phone to his ear. "Okay, please head for Pax River as fast as you can. You'll be met on the ramp there by one of our people and a Navy captain. Cooperate fully with them."

"Mr. DiStefano?"

"Yes?"

"There's… something else," Scott began. "There's something you need to know… something strange that's been going on up here."

Scott held the microphone as his mind raced through the problem.

What do I say now? Do I just blurt out the possibility that we might have an activated thermonuclear weapon aboard that could incinerate millions of people in the next few seconds and vaporize Washington, D.C., in the process?

"Go ahead, Captain, I'm listening."

"Okay, bear with me, please. This is very odd."

Pete Cooke said nothing to the controller as he listened to the new Flitephone conversation between ScotAir 50 and the FBI. He slid into an extra chair as quietly as possible and stayed out of the way behind the controller's console as he began scribbling notes. The fact that FBI headquarters and an assistant director were involved raised the stakes even more.

But why did they want him to go to Pax River? The explanation had left Pete stunned.

My God, plutonium! No wonder the FBI is working the case.

Pete wrote down the names of those aboard as they were being passed to the FBI. The name of Dr. Linda McCoy seemed familiar, but from where he wasn't sure. For a few seconds he was so absorbed in trying to place her that the captain's words about "something strange" nearly passed unnoticed.

The captain was describing a pallet of cargo he had aboard—a metal container and a screen displaying a message the captain slowly repeated word for word.

WHAT?

Pete pressed the earpiece deeper into his ear, straining to hear every word as the pilot described the warning on the screen.

He reread his hastily scribbled notes, wishing his handwriting had not deteriorated so much in previous years.

"WARNING! The fact that this device is now located within the physical confines of the Pentagon has been detected and locked in memory. ANY ATTEMPT TO MOVE THIS DEVICE FROM ITS PRESENT LOCATION—OR ANY ATTEMPT TO DEACTIVATE—WILL RESULT IN INSTANT DETONATION!"

Detonation! My God, what does that mean?

Pete stood up and moved silently behind the controller, mentally comparing the position of ScotAir 50 on the screen with the approximate position of the Pentagon.

They were significantly different! The aircraft might have passed over the Pentagon, but it was holding between eight and eighteen miles away now, and the thing in the cargo compartment of ScotAir 50 didn't seem to know it.

Pete sat back down, his mind racing: Suspected plutonium … a message threatening detonation… the FBI is involved… a large metal container on a cargo aircraft…

My God in Heaven, they've got a live nuke flying around over D.C.!

The temptation to run to the nearest phone and call his editor was strong, but was it the right thing to do? The story was breaking in front of him, but the next edition of his newspaper was fourteen hours away. This was probably one for the broadcasters, but it was highly likely that he was the only reporter in the country who had any idea what was going on just a few miles away.

But what did he know?

Pete could feel his heartbeat accelerate. It was suddenly very warm in the otherwise slightly cool control room.

Suppose this is a test, and I panic everyone in the country into thinking there's some sort of nuclear bomb flying over the seat of government of the United States. Maybe I've missed something.

The consequences of getting it wrong were too thunderous and frightening to contemplate.

The voice of one of ScotAir's pilots coming from the controller's overhead speaker cut through the shock, reaffirming that at least part of the conversation he'd overheard had been real.

"Ah, Washington Approach, ScotAir Fifty. Sir, we need an immediate vector to Patuxent River Naval Air Station, and the latest weather there, if you have time."

The controller shot a questioning glance back at his guest. Pete Cooke moved the chair forward and tried to sound normal.

"The FBI's ordered them to land there," he explained simply.

The controller nodded and turned back to the scope as he picked up a tie-line to arrange the clearance and get the weather.

"Roger, ScotAir Fifty. I have your request. Stand by, please."

The wail of a new electronic warning horn from the cargo compartment reached the cockpit just as the revised clearance to Pax River was coming through. Doc remained at the controls with Jerry backing him up in the engineer's seat as Linda led the way to the back with Scott and Vivian following. This time the noise was many decibels higher in volume, and different in tone.

Linda swung around the rear of the container and pressed forward to read the screen as Scott approached on her heels, almost losing his balance as the 727 bounced through the turbulent air.

She touched the screen and the horn stopped instantly.

"The screen is changing," she said.

Scott pressed in beside her to read the message.

The symbols 00:15:00 appeared and began counting backward.

Scott motioned Vivian over and she, too, pressed forward to read the words— which changed once again.

She jumped back. "How? How does it know I'm here?" Her voice was alarmed and almost indignant. Linda McCoy moved to her side and took her arm to calm her down. "He could… it could… be guessing."

A deep male voice boomed through the cargo cabin without warning, causing Vivian to feel trapped and doomed.

"Vivian, as the screen says, I can detect your presence. Are you curious as to how?"

Vivian gasped audibly as her left hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

Linda glanced at Scott, who looked at the container.

"There's a large speaker down there, I guess," he said. "That's either a tape or a computerized voice."

Linda turned to Vivian. "Is that your husband's voice?"

She nodded, breathing hard, as the voice began again, full of sarcastic expression and oily self-confidence. If it's a computer synthesizer, Linda concluded, it was very advanced.

"Step forward, Vivian, my dear, up to the screen. If the people gathered here want you to disarm this weapon, and I'm sure they do, all you have to do is enter some numbers. It's a simple task. Even a brainless idiot like you can do it."

Vivian remained rooted to the spot.

The computerized voice resumed with an angrier tone.

"STEP FORWARD, VIVIAN! I know that's you. The pacemaker your doctor implanted in 1991 was modified by me. It contains a special transponder so I could always locate you electronically. I know you're here, and I'll know if you try to leave, and if you try to leave, I'll detonate this device instantly."

"It's a digitalized voice, Vivian!" Scott said. Vivian seemed transfixed, her hand over her mouth. "It's not him, Vivian," Linda added. "It's a thing your husband programmed." Vivian pulled away from Linda and squared her shoulders, then moved slowly back toward the screen. When she was within a foot, the voice resumed.

"Vivian Henry, you are the last chance every computer, database, telephone and communications switching center, and every other electronic circuit within two thousand miles has of remaining functional. If you screw this up, you'll doom Washington, D.C., the Pentagon, Washington National Airport, Arlington, and the economy of the United States to ruin. But to disarm this device, simply reach in, put your hand on the keypad beneath the screen, and key in our old four-digit PIN number from our joint banking account."

Vivian slowly inserted her hand, the familiar PIN numbers running through her mind over and over. Her stomach was twisted up in fear, and her hands were shaking, but she forced herself to push each number deliberately.

Linda McCoy stood a few feet away wondering what Rogers Henry had been trying to accomplish. If the threat was real, and if he was going to permit it to be disarmed, why the game? Why force his ex-wife to remember an old PIN number with the penalty for mistake being a nuclear detonation?

Why, indeed, unless he was toying with her.

"VIVIAN!" Linda yelled, starting toward her. "STOP!"

"What?" The final number had already been keyed as she turned toward Linda.

"He's setting you up to get it wrong!"

An ear-splitting blast of electronic sounds filled the compartment, followed by a new small beeping sound and the sarcastic digitalized voice of Rogers Henry once again.

"You entered the wrong PIN number, Vivian, so the countdown to detonation will now begin. This whole thing is your fault, Vivian.

Vivian turned back toward the device with an overwhelming feeling of rage. He had done it to her again! Even from the grave, he had set her up to take the blame for everything that went wrong, no matter how obvious the ploy. She felt a guttural scream begin in the back of her throat as she flung herself at the thing and pounded it with her fists.

"NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!" Linda McCoy moved toward her. "Vivian!"

"One-six-five-five! I got it right! I punched it in right, you son of a bitch!"

"If you hadn't left me, Vivian, there would have been better ways to introduce this weapon, and better ways to punish the fools in the federal government who tried to prevent the building of this weapon. Oh, by the way, say hello to Medusa. This sample proof-of-concept version is a twenty-megaton-yield nuclear device, specially built by me. Just in case anyone has any question about what's happening, let me make it clear: The U.S. military canceled my project, now, thanks to my stupid ex-wife, I'm going to cancel the rotten core of the U.S. military, and the nation can start over. The generals have precisely three hours and thirty minutes from this moment to evacuate Washington and the twenty-five-mile radius this weapon will destroy. If there's immediate compliance, up to one million lives can be saved, although I fully expect Medusa to kill millions more, most of them, no doubt, useless bureaucrats. And, of course, there will be no way to protect against the Medusa Wave this will create, nor prevent at least a million more deaths from radiation poisoning in the next few months. Perhaps future generations will thank you, Vivian, for stupidly triggering Medusa. After all, the Pentagon and all of Washington, D.C., has outlived its usefulness. Think of this as a very effective way to reduce the size of the federal government."

Scott and Linda moved in on either side of Vivian, taking her arms and moving her back, away from the embodiment of Rogers Henry, as the voice began again.

"I detect you have moved a short distance away, Vivian. If you move more than fifteen feet away, detonation will occur instantly, and you will take a million more innocent people with you who might otherwise be saved. You will remain here and die in less than three hours and thirty minutes, or you can die trying to walk away and murder more. Your choice, Vivian."

"Let me sit here. I'll stay here," Vivian told them as she sank to the metal floor of the 727.

Scott looked at her in confusion. "You said it was a dummy! A mockup! That's probably still the case, right?"

Vivian shook her head as Linda knelt beside her, feeling the chill of the cold floor. "I'll find some blankets, Vivian, if you want to stay here."

"I have no choice," she said. "He's thought of everything. He's won again. He always said I'd never get away from him. He said he'd kill me. Now he will."

"Is that true, Vivian, about the pacemaker?" Linda asked.

She nodded. "I have one. The date's right. A transmitter inside would explain a lot of strange things."

Scott knelt beside her as well. "Vivian, he's already made a mistake. He said it would explode if it left the Pentagon. We're more than eight miles away from the Pentagon and moving constantly. It probably is just a mockup."

She was staring blankly at the device, but shaking her head in a slow resolute manner.

"That was wishful thinking, I'm afraid. I gave you false hope."

Linda and Scott looked at each other.

"What do you mean?" Scott managed. She looked up at the young captain. "I was married to Rogers Henry for thirty years. In all that time, I never once knew him to bluff."