Heath nodded knowingly. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, well flies eat shit when they can’t get in for dinner.”
Captain Heath nodded as though he understood.
They had reached the Disco, and Teare repeated the access procedure that had gained him entry just forty-eight hours before. Inside, things were proceeding smoothly. A yellow alert was more psychological than anything else. The whole concept of a missile base was that it maintained a constant state of readiness. Yellow Flag honed this to a sharp edge to ensure that all systems were constantly being checked and updated and all personnel were on call.
Nonetheless, the tension in the Disco was thick and Teare could feel it as plainly as the beard on his face. The men and the one woman inside knew this wasn’t a drill and were going about their duties with extra precision and sweaty brows instead of light smiles, in the backs of their minds the awareness that any second could bring the Red Flag order and the missiles would be on their way. Worse, with Yellow Flag procedures underway, the base was now sealed off. There would be no entries or exits and it would take an entire armored division to crack ground level security. The people of Bunker 17, in other words, had been totally shut off from the world beyond. What hurt the most was that they all knew something must have happened above them and they quite possibly would die here without ever knowing what. It was a helpless sort of feeling there was no way to prepare for in practice drills.
Teare scanned the Disco and noticed the king for the day was a man he had only moderate faith in. The major checked his watch. Just twenty minutes more until this shift expired and the man would be replaced, Teare hoped by Kate Tullman. Woman or not, she was the best Bunker 17 had. Teare found her in front of one of the six tangent monitoring consoles.
“Kate T.,” he said, stepping up behind her. “What’s the T stand for?”
“Trouble,” Kate Tullman replied, cracking a slight smile.
“How’d you like to be Disco queen until further notice? Could you handle two staggered nine-hour shifts?”
“Just keep the coffee coming, Major, and I’ll do fine.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Teare said and he moved back toward Heath.
“I still don’t get it, Cap. Somethin’ ain’t right here.”
“All routine as far as I can see.”
“I mean with Yellow Flag comin’ out of nowhere.”
“Isn’t that where you would expect it to come from?”
“Maybe. I guess I never figured we’d ever face a real shootin’ war.”
“Who says we are? It’s only Yellow Flag now. Somebody in the Mideast might have farted again.”
“Not with this president. He don’t screw around.”
“All the same, Major, if a shooting war ever did happen, don’t you think this is just the scenario it would start with?”
Teare tugged at the knots in his beard, unconvinced. “Then why didn’t they program us to Red Flag right away?”
Heath thought for a moment. “Preparation, psychological and otherwise like the book says.”
“I don’t give a shit about the book. In a shootin’ war there wouldn’t be time for all that crap. Unless …”
Heath felt suddenly queasy. “Major, you’re not suggesting—”
“A first strike, Cap. Maybe that’s what they’re gettin’ us ready for. Somethin’ none of our drills really take much note of.”
“But Bunker 17 is defensive in nature.”
“There ain’t much defensive ’bout thirty-six MX missiles totin’ ten warheads each.”
Heath shrugged.
“All systems got flaws, Cap. A smart man can figure how to scratch his ass even in a strait jacket. You know what the most popular movie in the whole NORAD system is, Cap? Dr. Strangelove, where one man goes crazy and destroys the world.”
“The system’s been built to prevent that, Major.”
“Flaws, Cap, flaws.” Teare nodded to himself. “I’m not about to disregard orders, Cap, and if we get to Red Flag I’ll plant my ass on the button if that’s what it takes to launch. I just wanna be sure we ain’t gettin’ sideswindled here.”
“How?”
“To begin with, I want you to rig me somethin’ through the main feed lines that’ll let me spend some time monitorin’ civilian broadcasts to see if there’s somethin’ goin’ on up top we should know about.”
“That’s against the rules, Major.”
“Rules ain’t gonna mean shit, Cap, when farm dirt in Pawtawnee County, Georgia, catches fire.”
Heath shrugged. “Let’s hope there’s nothing unusual on the civilian bands then.”
“In which case, Cap, I’d be obliged if somebody told me what the hell we’re doin’ at Yellow Flag.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Arthur Jorgenson sat impatiently, high in the upper level of Landover, Maryland’s Capital Center. Below on the court, the New York Knicks were soundly trouncing the Washington Bullets in a game that held no interest for the chief of Clandestine Operations. He had picked up the ticket Bane had left for him and found his seat well before the game got underway. He had expected something closer to courtside with more people in the area. As it was, he and Bane had virtually the whole section to themselves which, now that he thought about it, would be exactly what the Winter Man wanted.
Jorgenson was a nonpartisan department head who handled projects beyond the scope of the traditional intelligence community. Clandestine Operations was composed of soldiers mostly, field men whose assignments were aimed at tilting the balance of power toward the U.S. or at the very least maintaining it where it was. Sabotage, espionage, assassination, terror tactics — all were known to the men of DCO, while DCO was known to only a handful. It was the last organization to operate under a veil of secrecy, though its days there were severely numbered, which had made Jorgenson increasingly nervous well before this particular mess had begun.
He had been ready to retire five years ago but hadn’t because no other man could run DCO at the standard he had created. The powers of the job defied conscience, and Jorgenson knew that power abused was power lost. He preached moderation at DCO, while he knew other men would use the organization’s vast resources and blanket charter to meddle where they had no right to, and would create conditions of international strife where otherwise none would have existed. So he had stayed on at DCO and probably would until his death at which time he hoped the organization would be disbanded, having fulfilled its purpose.
“Enjoying the game, Art?”
Jorgenson turned to see Bane taking the seat beside him. He thrust an open bag toward him.
“Peanut, Art?”
Down on the court, half time was approaching.
“You’re late.”
Bane cracked a shell and popped its contents into his mouth. “Hardly. I’ve been here long enough to see you arrive. Just playing it safe. Besides, I saw nothing wrong in making you sweat a little. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.” Bane’s voice tightened. “Like in New York yesterday.”
“If anything that should show you how important it is that we work together.”
“What do you know about COBRA, Art?”
Jorgenson felt a slight tremor of fear pass through him. “What do they have to do with this?”
“Everything. It was Colonel Chilgers who tried to have me taken out yesterday.”
“Chilgers? Why?”
“Because I stumbled upon his prize operation. Because a friend of mine saw a 727 disappear thanks to his technological magic, and my friend ended up dead a few days later.”
“Josh, you’ve got to slow down,” Jorgenson said anxiously. “None of this makes any sense to me.” He pushed back the fear rising in him again. Somehow Project Placebo was connected here; he knew it was.