“On what grounds?”
“He’s somehow convinced the Attorney General that I’ve been blackmailing the President to give the DMS an unusual amount of power and freedom of movement.”
“That’s kind of true, though, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t as simple as that, but for legal purposes the NSA have permission to arrest and detain all DMS staff, seize all of our facilities, et cetera.”
“Can he do that?”
“Yes. He’s the de facto Commander in Chief. Though once the President wakes up and resumes command the VP’s probably going to face some heat, but that will be in a few hours and the VP can do a lot of damage in that time. Aunt Sallie says that the NSA has landed two choppers at Floyd Bennett Field and is deploying a team. They do have warrants.”
Aunt Sallie was Church’s second in command and the Chief of Operations for the Hangar, the main DMS headquarters in Brooklyn. I’d never met her, but the rumors about her among the DMS staff were pretty wild.
Church said, “The Veep is operating in a narrow window here. We need to stall him until the President regains power. I can stall the Attorney General.”
I almost laughed. “This is really about MindReader, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
MindReader was a computer system that Church had either designed or commissioned—I still didn’t know which—but it could bypass any security, intrude into any hard drive as long as there was some kind of link, WIFI or hardline, and get out again without leaving a footprint. As far as I knew, there was nothing else like it in the world, and I think we can all be thankful for that; and it was MindReader that kept the DMS one step ahead of a lot of terrorist networks. My friend Maj. Grace Courtland had confided her suspicions to me that it was MindReader that gave Church the clout he needed to keep the President and other government officials off his back. Freedom of movement kept the DMS efficient because it negated the red tape that had slowed Homeland down to a bureaucratic crawl.
MindReader was a very dangerous tool for a lot of reasons, and we all hoped that Church had the kind of clarity of vision and integrity of purpose to use it for only the right reasons. If the VP took control of it, we’d be cooked. Plus, Church didn’t trust the MindReader system in anyone else’s hands. He had almost no faith in the nobler elements of the political mind. Good call.
“Major Courtland says that three unmarked Humvees are parked outside the Warehouse,” he said.
“What’s the Veep’s game plan?”
“I don’t know. Even as Acting President I can’t see him risking force to stop us. That gives us a little elbow room.”
“So why’s he want me? I can’t access MindReader without you personally logging me in.”
“He doesn’t know that. There are NSA teams zeroing four other DMS field offices and team leaders. They’re going for a sweep. But whatever they’re doing has to be bloodless, which is probably why Agent Andrews gave you a few minutes with Ms. Ryan.”
“Maybe, but he called for backup. Two other cars just rolled in. Lots of Indians, only one cowboy.”
“Can you get away?”
“Depends on how I’m allowed to go about it.”
“Don’t get taken, Captain, or you’ll disappear into the system. It’ll take six months to find you and you’ll be no good to me when we do.”
“Feeling the love,” I said, but he ignored me.
“This is fragile,” Church cautioned. “Anyone pulls a trigger and they’ll use it to take the DMS apart.”
“I may have to dent some of these boys.”
“I can live with that.” He disconnected.
As I pocketed my phone I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. My ten minutes were up. Andrews and his Goon Squad were closing in.
These guys shouldn’t have come out here. Not here.
“Okay,” I said to myself, “let’s dance.”
Chapter Three
The Deck, southwest of Gila Bend, Arizona
Saturday, August 28, 8:07 A.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 53 minutes
It’s refreshing to be insane. Just as it’s liberating to be aware of it.
Cyrus Jakoby had known that freedom and satisfaction for many years. It was a tool that he used every bit as much as if it was a weapon. In his view it was in no way a limitation. Not when one is aware of the shape and scope of one’s personal madness, and Cyrus knew every inch and ounce of his own.
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Cyrus?”
His aide and companion of many years, Otto Wirths, was a stick figure in white livery, with mud-colored eyes and a knife scar that bisected his mouth and left nostril. Otto was an evil-looking man with a thick German accent and a body like a stick bug. He was the only one allowed to still call Cyrus by his real name—or, at least, the name that had become real to both of them.