Split second, p.23
Split Second, page 23
“Good question,” said Blake. “Do you think this was real? Does everything Knight said make sense to you?”
Jenna stared at the physicist intently now as well, eager to hear his response.
“Yes!” said Walsh unreservedly. “If it’s made up, he’s spent a lot of time thinking things through. Because he knew his stuff. The complexities are immense, and he navigated through them flawlessly. And his Faraday, Maxwell comparison seems dead accurate to me also. I’d bet my last dollar that everything he said, at least the science part, was true.”
Blake nodded thoughtfully. “What about you, Jenna?” he said. “Thoughts? Impressions?”
Jenna sighed. “I don’t know. I agree with Dan. I’d be easy to fool, but the science sounded right. The logic of his interest in Nathan sounded right. And his explanation of what happened also. If I had to bet, I’d bet he’s completely on the level, as much as I wanted to hate him.”
She gestured to Blake. “But what about you, Aaron? What did you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he replied. “It’s all crazy. Yet it sounds so plausible.”
The PI shook his head. “I used to believe in God,” he continued, “but after losing my close friends and staring into the face of true evil, I’ve become much less sure. But if there is a God, how could he allow for such an utterly insane universe? The universe resetting to where it was a split second earlier every time Knight uses his device. Runaway duplication. And how could God allow a species as flawed as humanity to control such universe-altering power? To develop a capability with this much potential for misuse, this much potential for destruction?”
Walsh frowned. “Why would God, or the universe, allow for the hydrogen bomb?” he said grimly, “which could easily wipe out our planet. The answer is that fusion is a force required to power stars. So if you want the sun, you have to live with the destructive potential of the bomb. Maybe this is the same. Maybe time travel of less than a second is part of the fabric of the universe, and if it wasn’t possible, maybe the universes couldn’t exist.”
“Maybe,” said Blake, unconvinced.
“Or maybe God thinks this makes for a more interesting universe,” added Jenna.
“He’d definitely be right about that one,” said Blake. “But I begin to wonder if he also doesn’t have a demented sense of humor, and thinks it’s fun to throw wild shit our way. I guess he’s already hit us with the gem that most of the universe is made up of matter and energy invisible to us. We already know time slows down the faster you go. So why not this? Why not time travel that allows a phone from one frame in our movie to jump to the previous frame, and join its earlier iteration?”
“The concept of this is messed up,” said Jenna, nodding toward Blake. “It’s hard to deny that. But forgetting the science for a moment, what did you think of Edgar Knight?”
“I’m not really sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be everything he says he is. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t.”
“The real question is, do we take him up on his offer?” said Jenna, turning to each of her companions in turn.
“Are you including me in this?” asked Walsh. “He didn’t know I was here, so I wasn’t part of the offer.”
“You’ve become a critical part of our three-man army,” said Jenna with a smile. “Which in my book makes you part of the offer. You’re free to go back to your life, or you can um . . . hang out with us. Your choice.”
“Are you kidding?” said Walsh eagerly. “I’m in. I’m with you whatever you decide.”
Both turned to Blake and raised their eyebrows.
“I’m afraid we can’t take him up on his invitation,” he said. “At least not yet. Greg Soyer still isn’t safe. But now we know the score, and who has him. And why. So before we do anything else, we have to pry him from Lee Cargill.”
“Maybe Knight could help,” said Walsh.
Blake shook his head. “Maybe, but we can’t ask him. I’m still not sure I trust him. But even if every word he said was true, his camp might be infected with a spy or two. He admitted as much. Moles within moles. The only thing we know for sure right now is that we can trust ourselves.”
“It’s hard to argue with that,” admitted Jenna.
“So we need to get your friend back,” said Walsh. “But do you have any ideas as to how we do that?”
Blake smiled. “As a matter of fact,” he replied, nodding in satisfaction, “I do.”
40
Lee Cargill and Joe Allen had both made it to Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs at almost the same time more than three hours earlier. Cargill had raced there immediately following his meeting with President Janney, and Allen had arrived just after his triumphant campaign to retrieve Nathan Wexler’s flash drive.
Cargill was well aware that his second-in-command had failed miserably in his attempt to recover Jenna Morrison and her PI friend, but in the scheme of things, retrieving the flash drive had been of such paramount importance it was difficult for Cargill to characterize Allen’s actions as anything but a complete success.
While the base inside Palomar Mountain was blacker than black, a secret kept from even the highest ranked military, the one within Cheyenne Mountain was the most famous underground facility in the world. First conceived as a cold-war defense against Soviet missiles in the late 1950s, construction of the underground city within the granite mountain was completed in 1967, beginning its life as the operations center for the North American Aerospace Defense Command, commonly known as NORAD. Although the facility was later quadrupled in size, a project that was this time kept hidden from the public, the details of the initial construction had been widely disseminated.
The facility, carved out under a ceiling of granite that stretched seven football fields high, was designed to withstand a thirty-megaton nuclear explosion. Inside was a series of twenty-five-ton blast doors, a water-storage lake, and state-of-the-art air and water purification systems. Fifteen three-story buildings were initially constructed and placed on a system of giant springs, ensuring they were protected from earthquakes and explosions. Even in the sixties it had included a medical facility, store, cafeteria, fitness center, and living quarters, and the four-fold expansion had added so much more.
Cargill never stopped marveling at the engineering capabilities of the human race. The longest tunnel ever constructed, the Delaware Aqueduct, had been completed in 1945, and ran eighty-five miles through solid rock, delivering half of the water used in New York City each day.
Since the time when projects such as this and Cheyenne Mountain had been completed, the technology used for tunneling and the construction of underground facilities had advanced by the same leaps and bounds as most every other technology. By the late eighties, boring machines weighing millions of pounds were employed to drill a thirty-mile train tunnel, over ninety feet in circumference, between the UK and France, most of which was cut deep below the English Channel, and advances made since this time made these machines look feeble.
But of all the underground bases that had ever been built, using techniques that earlier generations could only dream of, the most famous continued to be Cheyenne. The idea of such a base built under a third of a mile of solid granite captured the public fancy like nothing else, as did photos of the facility, which most often evoked a single word: cool.
So Cheyenne Mountain was featured in movies such as War Games and Independence Day, and in television shows such as Stargate SG-1, among others.
Despite its fame, Cargill had chosen it for his temporary headquarters because no place on Earth was more secure, more impregnable. And while his group would have its own wing, so to speak, they would be only one of a number of military groups, black or otherwise, calling the mountain home. This meant that security was redundant, handled by so many separate groups that a cancer within any one of them couldn’t weaken the security organism as a whole.
Cargill and Allen were the only two members of Q5, now about eight hundred people strong, currently within the granite embrace of Cheyenne, but twenty others would soon join them—the twenty with the most complete knowledge of their operation, although no one other than Cargill knew it all, including his second-in-command.
Later that night, a dozen of their top scientists would move in to begin work on unlocking the secrets recorded on Nathan Wexler’s flash drive. And within a few days, eight of their highest ranked and most trusted lieutenants would follow, all of whom had been recalled from assignments and asked to stay at hotels of their choice in Colorado Springs until their accommodations could be readied inside the mountain.
These men, whom Cargill collectively called the Inner Circle, all had considerable commando experience in theaters around the world, and were all intensely loyal. At least they had been at one time. This could well have changed for one of them.
There had been seven more in the Inner Circle only a few days earlier. Five of these had been among the casualties of the Palomar Mountain ambush. Jack Rourk was the sixth. And the man he had ruthlessly murdered, Mark Argent, completed the tally of devastating losses.
The other odd seven hundred and eighty members of their group, whose knowledge of the big picture was severely limited and whose activities were varied and compartmentalized, would continue to stay at the Palomar site. They would be relocated to Cheyenne in a few weeks time, and remain there for six to eight months until their new facility was ready, one President Janney had wholeheartedly supported. These other, lesser members had no idea Q5 had anything to do with sending matter a split second back into the past.
As Cargill was streaking through the sky on his way to Colorado Springs, he had sent a bulletin to every member of his group, providing the details of the new arrangement. If Knight had declined to attack the Palomar base when Cargill and Allen and his top fifteen lieutenants were there, it was inconceivable that he would do so now.
And Cargill’s bulletin had been purposely misleading in one regard. He had said that he and Allen were staying at an undisclosed location, and they would be interacting with the team as needed through secure messaging and video channels, whereas the truth was that they would also be based inside Cheyenne. The hollowed-out city was large and labyrinthian enough that they could reside in a remote section, with its own exit, without fear of being seen by anyone else from Q5. Knight and his mole would be searching for them elsewhere, ensuring the rest of Cargill’s team would remain unmolested.
Cargill knew that Knight would keep his powder dry until he was sure he could eliminate him. Cutting off the head of a snake was an overused cliché, but it was overused for a reason. And in this instance, it could not be more apt: Edgar Knight and Lee Cargill were the only two who really mattered.
After Cargill and Joe Allen had arrived at Cheyenne, they had toured their new digs and checked into their living quarters. Then, once the effects of the quick-acting gas had lifted, they had spent almost two hours of quality time with Greg Soyer, both giving him their undivided attention, and Cargill was convinced that no two hours had been better spent.
After they were done with Soyer they had moved to Cargill’s new office, from which he would be directing Q5 for a while, although it was as much war room as office, large and high tech, with all communications untraceable.
“So I never had the chance to ask,” began Allen when they both were seated around a small oval conference table, “how was your meeting with Janney? I know he agreed on your base proposals, but what else happened?”
“I got everything I wanted,” reported Cargill triumphantly. “Most importantly, he agreed that we’re too important to risk interference from future presidents. So after he leaves office, we’ll be completely self-contained, a law unto ourselves.”
“Perfect,” said Allen.
Cargill was about to reply when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. “It’s a woman named Amy Adams-Vanliew,” he explained. “From Homeland. I asked her to call the instant she had any credible leads on Aaron Blake or Jenna Morrison.”
“Hi, Amy,” he said, putting the call on one of his larger monitors. A three-dimensional image of an attractive blonde appeared. “What can you tell me?”
“Just got word that Aaron Blake accessed an ATM machine in San Ysidro, California,” said the caller. “Less than ten minutes ago.”
“Outstanding,” said Cargill. “Where is that?”
“In southern San Diego,” replied Adams-Vanliew. “It borders Tijuana, Mexico.”
“Thanks. How long until you have the video of this transaction?”
“In minutes, if not seconds,” came the reply. “I’ll send it to your phone the moment I get it. I’ve asked for five minutes of footage on either side of the transaction.”
“Perfect. Thanks again, Amy,” he said, ending the connection.
A smile spread across Cargill’s face. “This is the break we’ve been looking for,” he told his second-in-command with great enthusiasm. “I know this Blake is good. I know you weren’t surprised he managed to stay off the radar after he left Soyer’s house. But nobody’s perfect. He finally made a mistake.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” said Allen, unconvinced.
“He’s not Superman,” said Cargill. “How fast can we get a team to San Ysidro?”
“San Diego is riddled with military bases,” said Allen. “I could scramble a team and have them there in five or ten minutes.”
Cargill was about to reply when his PDA informed him he had received the message he had been waiting for, with the video file attached.
He ordered his personal digital assistant to throw the footage on his primary screen and play it in real time, four minutes in from the beginning.
The ATM’s cameras initially showed no one in front of the device, which Cargill had expected. But about thirty seconds later, a short Hispanic boy, his hair jet black and his clothing old and worn, approached the machine cautiously. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.
“What the fuck?” said Cargill.
The boy slipped a colorful plastic card into a slot in the front of the ATM. He carefully consulted a piece of paper in his hand and entered a password. The instant this was completed the name Aaron Blake appeared in the corner of the video, indicating the boy had entered a correct password and the ATM’s computer had now identified him as the ex-Army Ranger they were after.
Next, the boy attempted to withdraw five hundred dollars, which the ATM denied him. He grinned impishly—as though he had been told this wouldn’t work but couldn’t help but try anyway. The boy tried to withdraw a lesser amount, with the same result. Finally, satisfied that he wouldn’t be getting any money from the machine, he requested an account balance, which the ATM dutifully printed on a small slip of paper that it spit out into his hand. He pocketed this and then turned the piece of paper he had brought with him over. He held it in front of him, facing the camera.
A message had been written on the paper in neat capital letters.
LEE CARGILL, WE NEED TO TALK.
This was followed by a phone number.
Finally, the message ended with the words, AND FEEL FREE TO SEND A TEAM HERE. YOU WON’T FIND ME.
The boy threw down the paper and ran off, no doubt to collect his spoils for a job well done.
“Maybe this guy doesn’t make mistakes, after all,” said Cargill, unable to hide his admiration.
Allen nodded. “The way he slipped the noose inside Soyer’s home was as impressive as anything I’ve ever seen.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“Are you going to call him?”
“Of course,” said Cargill. “But let’s do some war gaming first. Let’s look at this from every angle, consider the various directions in which this call might go, and plan accordingly.”
“He’ll be expecting you to call back immediately.”
“That’s okay. He’ll keep.” Cargill tilted his head and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. “And maybe it’s time we stop doing the expected.”
41
Jenna Morrison was reclining against the headboard of the Best Border Inn’s low-rent king-sized bed, her blonde wig thrown unceremoniously on an end table. Her eyes were closed, but she was wide awake. Dan Walsh was tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desk. And Aaron Blake was pacing like a caged lion, which was not easy to do in the seedy, cramped room.
It had been over thirty minutes since the kid had returned, assuring Blake that he had accomplished his mission.
So where was Cargill?
“Is it possible Cargill wasn’t alerted when the boy entered your ATM password?” said Walsh.
“No,” replied Blake decisively. “I may be willing to believe time travel is possible. But I’m not willing to believe Cargill would ever be so sloppy as to fail to monitor our accounts. The only reason I got away with using an ATM earlier today was that they were scrambling after our escape from Greg’s house. But once they had a chance to think, this would be one of the first things they’d do.”
“And you’re certain the kid didn’t screw up?” said Jenna.
“Not certain, but confident. He brought me an account balance like I asked, so I know he got into the system as me. He insisted he held up the paper with my message facing the camera. My Spanish isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough for me to be sure that he was sure. Maybe Cargill is out of reach, or can’t be disturbed. Although I’d be surprised if he didn’t leave orders to be interrupted if he got a bead on us, no matter what.”
Blake sighed. “Let’s give it another hour. If we don’t hear, we’ll try something else.”
He continued pacing and checking the time. Another fifteen minutes passed, and he thought he would lose his mind if he had to wait another forty-five.
His phone rang.
Blake had already instructed his PDA to set up the call through the motel’s television as before, audio-only. Cargill must know what he looked like by now, but giving him a peek at the motel room would give him clues to their location that Blake wanted to avoid.
