“I’m not going down there!” Wright cried. “Cuthbert, Lavinia, listen to me. That basement’s a death trap. I know. We’ll go upstairs, we can hide on the fourth floor, come back when the creature’s gone.”
The people were through the door and staggering down the stairwell. D’Agosta could hear more wood splintering. He paused a moment. There were thirty-odd people below him, only three hesitating on the landing. “This is your last chance to come with us,” he said.
“We’re going with Doctor Wright,” said the Public [342] Relations Director. In the gleam of the flashlight, Rickman’s drawn and fearful face looked like an apparition. Without a word, D’Agosta turned and followed the group downward. As he ran, he could hear Wright’s loud, desperate voice, calling for them to come upstairs.
= 49 =
Coffey stood just inside the tall archway of the Museum’s west entrance, watching the rain lash against the elaborate glass-and-bronze doors. He was shouting into his radio but D’Agosta wasn’t responding. And what was this shit Pendergast was slinging about a monster? The guy was bent to begin with, he figured, and the blackout sent him over the edge. As usual, everyone had screwed up, and once again it was up to Coffey to clean up the mess. Outside, two large emergency response vehicles were pulling up at the. entrance and police in riot gear were pouring out, moving quickly to erect A-frames across Riverside Drive. He could hear the wailing of ambulances frantically trying to nose their way through the steel grid of radio cars, fire engines, and press vans. Crowds of people were scattered around, crying, talking, standing in the rain or lying beneath the Museum’s vast awning. Members of the press were trying to slip past the cordon, snaking their microphones and cameras into faces before being pushed back by the police.
[344] Coffey sprinted through the pelting rain to the silver bulk of the Mobile Command Unit. He yanked open the rear door and jumped inside.
Within the MCU, it was cool and dark. Several agents were monitoring terminals, their faces glowing green in the reflected light. Coffey grabbed a headset and sat down. “Regroup!” he shouted on the command channel. “All FBI personnel to the Mobile Command Unit!”
He switched channels. “Security Command. I want an update.”
Garcia’s voice came on, weary and tense. “We still have total system failure, sir. The backup power hasn’t kicked in, they don’t know why. All we have are our flashlights and the batteries in this mobile transmitter.”
“So? Start it manually.”
“It’s all computer-driven, sir. Apparently there is no manual start.”
“And the security doors?”
“Sir, when we took those power dips the entire security system malfunctioned. They think it’s a hardware problem. All the security doors were released.”
“Whaddya mean, all?”
“The security doors on all five cells closed. It isn’t just Cell Two. The whole Museum’s shut down tight.”
“Garcia, who there knows the most about this security system?”
“That’d be Allen.” “Put him on.”
There was a brief pause. “Tom Allen speaking.”
“Allen, what about the manual overrides’? Why aren’t they working?”
“Same hardware problem. The security system was a third-party installation, a Japanese vendor. We’re trying to get a representative on the phone now, but it’s tough, the phone system is digital and it went out when the computer shut down. We’re routing all calls through Garcia’s transmitter. Even the T1 lines are out. It’s been [345] a chain reaction since the switching box was shot to hell.”
“Who? I didn’t know—”
“Some cop—what’s his name? Waters?—on duty in the Computer Room, thought he saw something, fired a couple of shotgun rounds into the main electrical switching box.”
“Look, Allen, I want to send a team in to evacuate those people trapped in the Hall of the Heavens. The Mayor’s in there, for Chrissake. How can we get in? Should we cut through the east door into the Hall?”
“Those doors are designed to retard cutting. You could do it, but it would take forever.”
“What about the subbasement? I’ve heard it’s like a frigging catacomb down there.”
“There might be ingress points from where you are, but on-line charts are down. And the area isn’t fully mapped. It would take time.”
“The walls, then. How about going through the walls?”
“The lower load-bearing walls are extremely thick, three feet in most places, and all the older masonry walls have been heavily reinforced with rebar. Cell Two only has windows on the third and fourth floor, and they’re reinforced with steel bars. Most of them are too small to climb through, anyway.”
“Shit. What about the roof?”
“All the cells are closed off, and it would be pretty tough—”
“Goddammit, Allen, I’m askingyou the bestway to get some men inside.”
There was a silence.
“The best way to get in would be through the roof,” came the voice. “The security doors on the upper floors are not as heavy. Cell Three extends above the Hall of the Heavens. That’s the fifth floor. You can’t enter there, though—the roof is shielded because of the radiography labs. But you could come in through the roof of Cell [346] Four. In some of the narrower halls you might be able to blow a security door to Cell Three with one charge. Once you were in Cell Three you could go right through the ceiling of the Hall of the Heavens. There’s an access port for servicing the chandelier in the Hall ceiling. It’s sixty feet to the floor, though.”
“I’ll get back to you. Coffey out.”
He punched at the radio and shouted, “Ippolito! Ippolito, you copy?” What the hell was happening inside that Hall? He switched to D’Agosta’s frequency. “D’Agosta! This is Coffey. Are you reading me?”
He ran frantically through the bands.
“Waters!”
“Waters here, sir.”
“What happened, Waters?”
“There was a loud noise in the electrical room, sir, and I fired as per regulations, and—”
“Regulations? You fucking turkey, there’s no regulation for firing at a noise!”
“Sorry, sir. It was a loud noise, and I heard a lot of screaming and running in the exhibition and I thought—”
“For this, Waters, you’re dead. I’m gonna have your ass roasted and sliced up like luncheon meat on a platter. Think about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside there was a cough, sputter, and a roar as a large portable generator started up. The rear door to the Mobile Command Unit opened and several agents ducked in, their suits dripping. “The rest are on their way, sir,” one of them said.
“Okay. Tell them we’re having a crisis-control meeting here in the MCU in five minutes.”
He stepped out into the rain. Emergency services workers were moving bulky equipment and yellow acetylene tanks up the Museum steps.
Coffey ran back through the rain and up the steps into the debris-laden Rotunda. Medics clustered at the metal [347] emergency door blocking the east entrance to the Hall of the Heavens. Coffey could hear the whine of a bone saw.
“Tell me what you’ve got,” Coffey asked the leader of the medical team.
The doctor’s eyes looked strained above his blood-flecked mask. “I don’t know the full extent of the injuries yet, but we’ve got several criticals here. We’re performing some field amputations. I think a few others might be saved if you can get this door open in the next half hour.”
Coffey shook his head. “Doesn’t look like that will happen. We’re gonna have to cut through it.”
An emergency worker spoke up. “We’ve got some heat-proof blankets we can lay across these people as we work.”
Coffey stepped back and raised his radio. “D’Agosta! Ippolito! Come in!”
Silence. Then, he heard a hiss of static.