"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Smith, I have the official National Transportation Safety Board report on the California crash, and the news isn't good."
"I'm listening."
"It was sabotage."
"The board is certain?"
"I'm not up on all the technical details, but from what they tell me, somebody tampered with the pressurization system on that jet."
"That alone would not insure a crash. The plane was off course at the time of the disaster."
"That's where we come to the truly insidious part. The official report lays it all out chronologically. And let me tell you, it's chilling to read. Just chilling."
"Go on," Smith prompted.
"Whoever sabotaged the plane knew that the captain would have to descend to what's called a 'low-altitude airway.' When they do that, they rely on special charts. There are two to a cockpit. A set for the captain and a set for the copilot."
"I follow you so far, Mr. President."
"They had a hell of a time extracting the charts from what was left of the cockpit. It was mashed tighter than Congress in a phone booth. But they found them. Both charts were counterfeit."
"Counterfeit?"
"Doctored to lead them off course," the President said tightly. "Somebody with a lot of money and organization pulled this off. When that plane lost pressure, those poor guys dug out those two false charts and flew themselves right into Mt. Whitney. And that's exactly where somebody wanted them to end up. Exactly."
Smith let out a pent-in breath. "Then there is no escaping it."
"No," said the President grimly. "General Nogeira arranged the assassination of the governor of California and the lieutenant governor."
"And engineered this special election," Smith added.
"Well, whatever he was up to, he's not going to get the benefit of it."
"That does not mean his organization-and I agree with you that he must have had one, in order to accomplish this audacious scheme-is not still operating, pursuing his vicious ends."
"I heard about the Ripper woman. The press aren't buying the inflicted-by-a-staffer story. The public thinks it's another attempt on a gubernatorial candidate. My God, it's like a banana republic out there in California. Is this what the future holds for the rest of this fine country?"
"Not if CURE has anything to say about it," Smith said firmly. "My people are on top of the situation. There will be no more political assassinations."
"I'm going to have this NTSB report suppressed until the election is done with."
"That is probably for the best," said Harold Smith. "I will keep you informed of developments."
Harold Smith replaced the well-worn red receiver. The President had offered no advice on the handling of the California situation. Smith appreciated that. Not that he would have listened to the President, but the way matters were going, this was shaping up to be an unprecedented situation. And Harold W. Smith, for all his experience in unraveling the Gordian knot of national security, wouldn't have known the best outcome to engineer-even if it had been in his power to engineer it.
Chapter 23
The sun was setting as Remo tooled his rented car through the Santa Monica Mountains west of Topanga. The area was quiet. Here and there, the mountainsides were decorated with tar-paper shacks and cardboard condominiums that undocumented aliens had erected on the slopes. The sight reminded Remo of the mountains that ring the Valley of Mexico and Mexico City. Their sheer sides was a beehive of homeless people, too.
"If this keeps up, this state is going to be unlivable," Remo pointed out.
"What did you say?" asked Blaise Perrin, his head snapping around. He had been watching the pursuing van, now following at a decorous thirty miles an hour.
"The homes up there," Remo said. "That's no way to live."
"Change your attitude. Rona Ripper's hard work helped make it possible for the underprivileged to enjoy the bounty of this great state. She sued the county when they tried to displace those people."
"I heard cooking fires they've started have burned people out of their homes."
"And I heard it was spontaneous combustion."
Remo said nothing. He wondered what he'd do when they got to wherever it was they were going, and Cheeta Ching descended upon him. Her face, reflected in the rearview mirror, made him think of a remorseless harpy chasing a field mouse.
Remo got the answer to his question when they came to a barbed-wire perimeter fence. A black-and-yellow striped guard rail was lifted by a sentry in a black Spandex jogging outfit.
They were waved through. So was the TV van, Remo saw in the rearview mirror.
"Now," Blaise Perrin said gleefully, "they're trespassing."
"Looked like they were welcomed with open arms," Remo pointed out.
"Trespassing," repeated Blaise Perrin. "Take this next left. "
Remo went left. Around a low hillock appeared a scattering of quonset huts, surrounded by a hurricane fence. There was no sign to indicate what the complex was supposed to be. It made Remo think of a POW camp.
Two sentries in Spandex pushed open a tall gate topped by razor wire, and Remo drove through.
"What's this?"
"Education center. All Ripper volunteers are processed through this facility. It insures correct political attitudes."
"Uh-huh," Remo said, putting the car into a designated slot. He got out. Blaise Perrin emerged, buttoning his suitcoat and inhaling the mountain air greedily.
"Ahhh! Isn't this great? Fresh air! When we're done, all California will smell like this."
To Remo, whose sensitive nostrils now detected trace elements of airborne zinc and sulphur, that was hardly an enticing thought, even if it was an improvement over city smog.
He watched as Blaise Perrin stepped into the headlights of the approaching van and waved the driver into the adjacent parking slot.
"Just shoot her right there!" he called.
The van coasted to a stop, and the headlights were doused. The doors on either side popped open and out popped Cheeta Ching and her driver.
"Vito!" she called.
As if that were a signal, the ground came alive with men in olive drab, toting Colt automatic rifles.
"What's this crap?" Cheeta demanded.
"You're trespassing," Blaise Perrin said.
"I'm a major network anchorperson!" Cheeta spat. "I don't trespass. I investigate. Look it up in the Constitution."
"In this case, you're trespassing," said Blaise Perrin, snapping his fingers coolly. The Colt rifles were cocked with military precision.
"This isn't a good idea," Remo warned.
Blaise Perrin smiled broadly. "Oh. I forgot to tell you. You're a prisoner, too."
Two rifle muzzles shifted from Cheeta Ching and her driver to Remo's white T-shirt.
Remo looked down the weapon's barrel and suppressed a smile. He was making progress. Already.
"Okay," he said nonchalantly, throwing up his hands. "I'm a prisoner."
"How can you just surrender like that?" Cheeta Ching said hotly.
"Because he doesn't want to be shot," Blaise explained.
"Because I don't want to be shot," Remo echoed, knowing it would put Blaise Perrin at ease and annoy Cheeta Ching.
"I hate you," Cheeta hissed. "What did I ever see in you?"
"A cute guy with an unforgettable name," Remo said.
Blaise snapped, "Let's go. Inside. All of you."
Remo allowed himself to be marched into the main building, a long, low, barracks-like structure in the center of the quonset huts.
The sign on the entrance door said POSITIVELY NO SMOKING.
So did the sign on the first inside wall they came to.
They were marched down a rough, unpainted corridor. On either side there were other signs:
SMOKING IS PUNISHABLE BY FLOGGING NO IFS, ANDS, OR BUTTS SAY NO TO NICOTINE REMEMBER YOUR PATCHES.