“Yes, the proverbial moral balance sheet. I’ve been there and back a hundred times, Hunsecker, and the picture’s always the same. There is no right or wrong, only cloudy levels of both. Through the muck, though, lines have to be drawn somewhere. Your father is part of something that meant to destroy much of the United States. We haven’t won as long as the Children are still out there — as long as he’s still out there.”
“So you kill him.”
“We do what we have to.”
“Say it!”
“Oh, I’ve got no problem with killing, Patty, not insofar as it means millions of lives are going to be saved.”
Patty Hunsecker wouldn’t back off. “You once told me one innocent life was as important to you as a million. You were talking about a young boy who’d been kidnapped, remember?”
“Your father isn’t innocent. Neither are the rest of the Children. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Patty shouted, and stormed out of the motel room.
Johnny Wareagle touched Blaine’s shoulder. “You know where she will go if we don’t stop her, Blainey.”
“She’s got that much coming to her, Indian — if that’s what she wants.”
“Still, she is entering the crossfire, where bullets kill without aim or discretion.”
“She knows.”
“Does she?”
A thinly veiled smile crossed Blaine’s lips. “It’s what she has to do. That’s all.”
Sal Belamo cleared his throat. “And what I got to do is round up my team and head West. That rich bitch’ll probably beat me there, at this rate.”
“That’s my hope, Sal.”
McCracken reached the Pennsylvania Yankee Nuclear Power Plant at 10:00 the next morning. Maxie’s death confirmed that Abraham remained committed to fulfilling his role in the operation. A roundabout route to reach the site was thus mandated, and Blaine squeezed from it all the time he could.
“Look,” the guard at the front gate repeated, “I can’t let you in unless your name’s on this list.” He tapped his clipboard. “And it ain’t.”
“Call the shift supervisor.”
“Need a pretty good reason to do that.”
“How’s this?” Blaine asked the guard, pressing the pistol against his temple.
Every guard on duty at Pennsylvania Yankee had McCracken in their gun sights as Blaine and his hostage moved for the front of the complex. The main entrance was built in the shadow of the massive white tower that housed the nuclear reactor itself. He kept the steel barrel hard enough against the guard’s head to push the blood from the area, no doubt left as to the sincerity of his intentions. A man wearing a white shirt and tie met him on the front steps, his hands raised in the air.
“Let’s try and stay calm, shall we?” he said to Blaine.
“I’ve never been calmer. Who are you?”
“Jack Tunnel.”
“Supervisor?”
“Plant manager. Let that man go. We’ll talk. I promise.”
“I’m not here to talk, Mr. Tunnel.”
“Sir, you don’t realize what you’re doing. The penalty for unlawful entry into a nuclear facility qualifies—”
“Fuck penalties, Mr. Tunnel. An hour from now you’re not going to give a good goddamn about penalties unless you listen to me.”
“Let the man go. Then I’ll listen.”
McCracken drew his hostage closer and drew back the pistol’s hammer. “You’ll listen now, you son of a bitch. Your plant’s been sabotaged. Do you hear me? We’ve got maybe an hour to find out how and where or there’s gonna be one major hole in the ground come dinner.”
“You’re a terrorist? Is that what this is about?”
“Not me and not terrorism. Something much worse, Mr. Manager, and we’ve got no time to waste talking about it.”
Jack Tunnel’s eyes met McCracken’s and his expression changed. “Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. You want to arrest me — fine. You want to call the FBI — fine. Just do it after you’ve shut down your reactors to check for explosives, to check for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Our security precautions make what you’re suggesting impossible.”
“I got through, didn’t I?”
“Not to the central core. You could shoot us all and still not get there.”
“But somebody else did late yesterday. Somebody no one here had reason to suspect.” The words came with his thoughts, as Blaine put it all together. “A surprise inspection by the NRC or Atomic Energy Commission. Noteworthy only for the fact that only a single man came out. Big. Straw-colored hair and deep blue eyes,” Blaine finished.
“Hey, chief,” said another shirt-and-tie man to Tunnel softly, “a guy from the AEC did show up around six….”
“How did you know?” Tunnel asked McCracken.
“Because it’s the way I would have done it.”
“And what else would you have done?”
Before Blaine could answer, the repetitive beep of a shrill alarm buzzed in their ears.
“All personnel to safe areas!” blared a mechanical, prerecorded voice. “All personnel to safe areas! We have a Code Red. Repeat: We have a Code Red.”
“Oh my God,” Tunnel muttered. “The control room, Tunnel!” McCracken shouted over the alarm. “Now!”
Chapter 35
Air Force One had come in on schedule to Logan Airport, and Arnold Triesman was counting his blessings. All things considered, the time Top Guy was in the air was the time he felt the most helpless. Couldn’t save Mr. Pres from a blown engine, a midair collision, or a missile. Nope, not even the Secret Service could do a damn thing until he was ground locked, which was when Triesman felt at least some measure of control.
Today’s agenda was simple, routine all the way. Top Guy lands at Boston’s Logan Airport, and then from the Callahan Tunnel takes the scenic route down Boylston Street to give as many locals as possible a gander en route to the Ritz Carlton Hotel for a luncheon with the governors from all the New England states. Airport time included, he’d be outside for no more than forty seconds and that was the name of the game. Rule number one: Ninety-nine point nine percent of all problems arose while Top Guy was outside. In a containable area or the safety of his rocketproof limo, no one was bothering.
Of course, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try someday, and Triesman had a full complement of agents and police personnel scattered along the route — two hundred in all — as insurance. The agents didn’t bother camouflaging themselves. Indeed, they made sure everyone about could see their well-known earpieces just to create a presence. A presence made for the best prevention of all. Rule number two.
Triesman waited outside the Ritz Carlton and drank in the routine of it all. A trio of police helicopters buzzed the sky in a continuous sweep, the rooftop perimeter clear as could be. Triesman breathed easy. The mundane made for his lifeblood. The extraordinary he savored not at all.
Which was why the sudden squawk of his walkie-talkie shook him alert, making him fumble it as he raised it to his lips.
“Alley Cat, this is Stray Seven!” one of his field men called over the emergency channel.
“Come in, Stray Seven.”
“Alley Cat, you’re not going to believe this, but I think I saw him again.”
“Saw who again, Stray Seven?”
“The Indian, Alley Cat. The same damn giant Indian from Philadelphia.”
“Oh, fuck,” was all Arnold Triesman could say.