Cloak, page 57
“That’s not funny,” Angie growled.
Ross sighed. “I know. Sorry. Look, let’s go one more block north. If we don’t find anything, we’ll head west toward Lexington. Unless you want to go inside somewhere for a couple of minutes and warm up.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Angie said, still staring at the lumbering panel truck that had so annoyed the impatient cabby. Why should a panel truck be grabbing her attention right now?
“Angie?”
Angie blinked, the train of thought whispering away into the cold. Ross was staring at her, an odd expression on his face. “I don’t know,” she said. “I thought I had something. But it’s gone now. It must not have been anything.”
“Maybe not,” he said. His eyes, she saw, were also on the truck disappearing into the general flow of taillights. “You said you were in the room when your husband told Kingsley to go get the semi, right?”
“Yes,” she said, her heart suddenly pounding. He was on to something, all right. Maybe the very thing they’d tried to kill her for. “Scott was the one who could drive an eighteen-wheeler.”
“But why a semi?” Ross countered. “Why something that big?”
“To take the Cloaks and other equipment to the reservoir,” she said. “There was supposed to be a demo for the Army the next morning.”
“Except that we know now that the Cloaks and all their gear will fit inside a panel truck,” Ross persisted. “So why a semi?”
And suddenly, she had it. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Are you saying—?”
“Yeah,” Ross bit out, grabbing the mike switch for his tac radio. “Talbot? Talbot, you copy?”
Angie leaned close to him, straining to hear. Ross responded by pulling out the ear bud and turning it sideways, leaning his head close to hers with the ear bud between them. “Talbot,” she heard Talbot’s voice faintly above the traffic noise.
“We’ve been had,” Ross snarled. “The damn Cloaks can move.”
“They what?”
“You heard me,” Ross said. “That semi Dr. Chandler ordered the night before the murders? It wasn’t for transport to the demonstration. It was the demonstration.”
“That’s impossible,” Talbot insisted. “All three techs told us the Cloaks couldn’t work while moving.”
“They also all said it was a software problem,” Ross reminded him. “I guess the problem got fixed.”
“James and Barbara came out of his office together that evening,” Angie said. The memory of that scene, and her childish overreaction to it, bit into her like a serrated icicle. “James looked so happy. And it was right after that he told Scott to get the semi.”
“Kingsley must have known from his pillow talk with Underwood that they were on the verge of a breakthrough,” Ross said. “The minute Chandler told him to get the semi he would have known they’d done it. Think about it—why make a hundred-foot Quonset hut vanish when you can do it to a rolling semi instead? The Army would have fallen all over themselves signing up the project.”
“But why didn’t Chandler tell the other techs?” Talbot objected.
“James loved to pull that sort of surprise on people,” Angie said, her eyes filling with tears despite the urgency of the situation. “He would have stood there and watched their faces as an invisible truck drove past and loved every minute.”
“That was why they had to kill Angie,” Ross said, his voice suddenly grim. “Kingsley would have assumed Dr. Chandler had told her about their breakthrough during their few minutes alone.”
Talbot swore suddenly. “That’s how they got off the cat in Oregon,” he said. “Nothing as complicated as a mass scuba dive. The Coast Guard helo delivered them a Cloak and they just rode a dinghy in.”
“This is McPherson,” the Director’s voice cut in. “Never mind the history. What does this translate into right now?”
“It means we’re not necessarily looking for a stationary bomb anymore,” Talbot said. “In fact, I’d say we’re not looking for something stationary at all. They wouldn’t have been so worried about what Angie knew if they were just going to park it somewhere.”
“And with all due respect, sir, the history is important,” Ross added. “If the Cloak’s sampling rate was the limitation before, then even with a software breakthrough that limitation is probably still there in one form or another.”
“Right,” Talbot said. “That means a limit to how fast they can move the things and still keep them invisible.”
“The fact that they didn’t Cloak the whole catamaran to bring it in to the coast tells me the top speed is probably pretty slow,” Ross offered.
“And the larger the Cloak, the slower it probably has to move,” Angie said. “There’s always more sampling data needed with a larger one.”
“Makes sense,” McPherson agreed. “Unfortunately, the smallest Cloak is already big enough to cover the nuke. Ross, you said you brought our small one with you?”
“It’s in the electronics assembly semi down by the river,” Ross said.
“Maybe they’ll have time to do some tests,” McPherson grunted.
“I’ve got someone on it,” Colonel Zebrinski’s voice cut in. “Personally, I’d guess Manhattan traffic speeds may be enough of a limitation all by themselves.”
“Maybe,” McPherson said. “So what, we’re now looking for a convertible cruising past the UN with its top down?”
“Or an open pickup,” Talbot said. “Or an SUV, or maybe a Prius with an empty luggage carrier on its roof. Something we normally wouldn’t waste a second glance on because we know the Cloaks have to be stationary.”
“Sir, I recommend we block off the streets right now,” Zebrinski said tightly. “This situation is suddenly a hell of a lot more unmanageable.”
“We’ve been through this, Colonel,” McPherson said firmly. “If they can’t get the weapon to the UN, they sure as hell aren’t going to smuggle it back into India. They’ll blow it somewhere else, maybe Wall Street or Broadway, and try to make it look like a second 9/l1.”
“Our job is to protect the UN,” Zebrinski said.
“Our job is to protect United States citizens,” McPherson shot back. “If it comes to choosing between them, we’ll go ahead and put up the roadblocks. But not while we still have half an hour to find them.”
“Find them where?” Zebrinski retorted. “They could be sitting in Queens right now for all we know.”
“Which is another point,” Talbot put in. “They’re hardly going to drive up to the UN in the next two minutes and park. Blocking the streets now will just warn them off.”
“So we wait?”
“We keep searching the buildings,” McPherson told him. “I like the logic here, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. And we get ourselves set for a complete stop-and-search along the perimeter starting at ten minutes to seven.”
“Which according to you will just warn them off,” Zebrinski argued.
“Not if we’re careful,” McPherson said. “We’ll only pick on vehicles that to all appearances can’t possibly be carrying anything the size of our nuke. If we limit it that way, we won’t have long checkpoint lines and snarled traffic to alert them.”
Zebrinski muttered something under his breath. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “But I don’t have anything better.”
“Just keep looking,” McPherson said. “Until you or someone else comes up with a better plan, we’re stuck with this one. Talbot, start getting the Bureau people organized.”
“Yes, sir,” Talbot said. “Ross, what about you and Angie?”
“I thought we’d do a little more searching,” Ross said. “As long as we’re this far out anyway.”
There was just the barest pause. “Fine,” Talbot said. “All team leaders, check in.”
~
McPherson clicked off his mike. “So let me get this straight,” his pilot, Hastings, said. “These friggin’ Cloak things can move.”
“That’s what the man said,” McPherson told him, peering out the open helo window at the rooftops not all that far below.
“But these detectors of yours, these thermal-gradient imagers, have to be pointed somewhere for a few seconds to work?”
McPherson grimaced, seeing where the other was going. “Yes.”
“So in other words,” Hastings concluded, “if the target’s moving at anything better than rush-hour speeds, it’ll be to hell and gone before you even get a reading on it.”
“Pretty much,” McPherson growled. “That’s why we’re using them up here and not down there. Let’s head north—I want to look at the next block up.”
~
Ross stepped away from Angie, suddenly aware that he was standing closer to her than she was probably comfortable with, and slid the ear bud back in place.
“So we’re going to search some more?” she asked.
Ross frowned. There’d been something odd in her voice just then. “We might as well,” he said, forcing a briskness he didn’t particularly feel. “We’ll go another block up Third and then cut over to Lexington. Come on.”
She didn’t move. “We’re not going back, are we?” she asked quietly. “You and Special Agent Talbot have already set this up. When the bomb goes off, you plan to have me as far away as you can. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Damn. “Angie—”
“I told you I wanted to help,” she said, and he could see that she was trying hard to be angry or outraged, or at least indignant. But the cold, the waiting, and the dread had drained all such emotions out of her. “Instead, you’re treating me like a child.”
“You are helping,” he told her. “In the past five minutes you’ve done more to help the situation than the rest of us have done in the past two hours. Thanks to you, we’ve now got a real shot at stopping this.”
“Then why are you sneaking me away?” she asked. “Because I’m a woman?”
Ross felt his stomach tighten. “Hanna Swenson’s also a woman,” he reminded her quietly. “She’s sitting right in the center of the blast zone.”
Angie lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“The point is that you’re a civilian,” he went on. “You never signed up for this kind of risk.”
“Neither did any of these people,” she countered, waving at the traffic still flowing past them. “Neither did the people there,” she added, pointing back along 44th toward the distant lights of the UN Building.
“They’re diplomats,” he pointed out. “Politicians. These days, that automatically means accepting risks. I wish that weren’t true, but it is.”
She gazed at the UN in silence a moment, then resolutely turned her back on it, bowing her head against the stiff westerly wind now blowing squarely in her face. “So why even bother with the pretense?” she said. “If we’re going to go, let’s just go. Or why don’t I just go, and let you get back to work? I’m sure you still have something useful to contribute.”
“Come on, Angie,” he said, stepping behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. Even through her heavy coat he could feel the stiffness of her muscles. “Look, you want to help? Then start thinking. Think about what kind of vehicle they might use to sneak the bomb in.”
“What do you mean?” Angie asked. Her muffled voice still sounded dejected, but there was a faint spark of interest to it now.
“Well, it won’t be a convertible, for instance,” he said, trying to muster his own thoughts. There had to be a logical way to attack this. “A convertible with its top down in this weather would be as obvious as Lady Godiva.”
“Yes, I see,” she said, raising her head again. “It has to look natural.”
“Right,” Ross said, blinking against the wind as he peered at the traffic. “It also has to look empty.
“What about if it doesn’t look at all?” she suggested. “Why couldn’t they just roll a cloaked golf cart down the sidewalk or something?”
Ross blinked. But even as the excitement rose inside him, common sense throttled it down again. “Too risky,” he said. “Too many people to dodge on the sidewalks. Someone would be bound to bump into it sooner or later. It’d be even worse when they hit the UN grounds, with all the people we’ve got running around there.”
“I suppose it would leave tracks in any snow it ran across, too, wouldn’t it?” she conceded with a sigh.
“Snow and puddles both,” he agreed. “Though I have to say that watching a cloaked golf cart trying to dodge New York traffic—”
And then, abruptly, it hit him. “Hell,” he said, very quietly.
Angie spun around, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
He looked down into her eyes, and then lifted his gaze into the wind, to the lights of Grand Central Station a block away.
Angie turned again to see what he was looking at. “A train?” she asked, catching her breath. “A subway train under the UN?”
“Not a train,” he said softly. “And not under.” Almost unwillingly, he lifted his gaze to the empty sky overhead. “Over.”
She said something startled sounding, but he wasn’t really listening. Letting go of her shoulders, he got his thermal imager in hand, twisted the knob to its longest distance setting, and pointed it directly upward.
Nothing. He reset it, angled it slightly east of vertical, and tried again. Still nothing. Resetting again, vaguely aware that pedestrians were slowing down and staring as they passed him, he tried a little further east.
“There’s still half an hour to go,” Angie’s voice broke into his concentration. “And the UN’s only two blocks away.”
“You’re right,” he agreed, turning around and aiming up and to the west instead of east. Ten seconds later, the imager’s display cleared and came back on.
And there it was. A huge cigar-shaped image with a baggy underside where the Papa Bear Cloak wrapped around it, perhaps eighty feet long, floating like a ghost a hundred feet above the street.
A dirigible.
He took a careful breath and keyed on his mike. “Talbot, this is Ross,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Tell Hanna I’ve found her missing hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
39
McPherson stared out the helo window at the city lights below. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “A dirigible?”
“Bakht’s own little Goodyear blimp,” Ross’s voice confirmed in his ear. “Heading straight down 44th toward the UN.”
“I’m not getting anything on the IR,” Hastings spoke up. “What kind of power is it under?”
“The oldest kind in the book,” Ross said. “Wind power. It’s being blown east.”
“Probably unmanned, too,” Talbot put in. “I should have thought of that when we first came up with this moving-Cloak idea. If General Bakht doesn’t like killing civilians unnecessarily, he’s not likely to be big on suicide missions, either.”
“But they wouldn’t have just let the thing go on a wing and a prayer,” McPherson pointed out. “They must have some kind of control over it.”
“I’d guess a tether line,” Ross said. “But if it’s there, it’s too thin and too high for me to see.”
“If it has to play out a half mile or more, it’ll have to be light,” Talbot pointed out. “Kevlar, maybe. Even so, it’ll bow down toward the street somewhat.”
“Whatever it is, we ought to be able to track it back to its source,” McPherson said. “Colonel, are any of your spotters close enough to zoom in on a Kevlar tether line?”
“We may not have to,” Zebrinski said as a faint rustle of papers came over McPherson’s headphones. “The NSA just sent the transcript of a tagged cell conversation from fifty-two minutes ago. Smudgy, they say, like two people talking near an open phone that one of them was covering with his hand . . . bingo. Listen to this. Quote:
“‘Unless Ross and the woman were bait. If you and Six were spotted.’
“‘What are you doing?’
“‘Don’t you see? If you were tracked here, then those helos will be merely the final phase of the assault. The commandos will already be inside the building.’
“‘Calm down. You’re jumping at shadows.’
“‘If they’re on to us.’
“‘They’re not on to us.’
“‘And we don’t launch the weapon.’
“‘The weapon is in no danger. We have a schedule, Colonel, and we’re going to stay on that schedule.’
“‘Yes, sir.’ End quote.”
“That’s them,” McPherson confirmed grimly. “Could they get a location on that call?”
“Got the address right here.” Zebrinski read it off. “They couldn’t pull the floor number, but there’s another line in the transcript that talks about sending Three and Thirteen to someone on the ninth floor, so there are at least that many stories. Wait a second.”
There was another rustle of paper. “Got the schematics. Twelve floors.”
“Then we’ve got them,” McPherson said. “Question is whether we can nail them before they get the bomb in position.”
“More to the point, can we get to them before they blow it?” Ross put in.
“The assault teams are already on the way,” Zebrinski said. “As to the second . . . we’ll just have to see.”
~
The assault was three-pronged, quiet and stealthy. The first two prongs were obvious and unimaginative: three darkened and engine-muffled helos, one attack and two troop carriers, all doing their best to sneak up on the base’s roof, while far below squads of combat-garbed commandos with shoulder-slung submachine guns stole through the suddenly deserted streets and took up positions at doors and windows.
