The Siren Project (37 page)

Fraser raised his hand again, motioning for
silence. “I'll be issuing a formal statement later today, once I’ve had time to
review the situation with the FBI and local law enforcement.” A murmur of
disappointment rose from the expectant crowd.

A man stepped forward, thrusting a
microphone toward the senator. “Do you think, sir, this attack was aimed at
stopping your new security measures?”

“I can assure you all, this attack will in
no way weaken my resolve to do what I know is necessary for our security,” he
said defiantly.

“We’ve heard reports that the explosion
could have been much worse,” a male reporter interjected. “Can you give us any
details?”

Fraser hesitated. “Thanks to the diligence
of the FBI, it's true, the effect of the explosion was significantly reduced -”

“The FBI!” Mouse declared in disgust.

“- even though they’re working with one
hand tied behind their backs. I believe if my proposals were law, the FBI would
have had the power to prevent this attack, not just disrupt it.” He started to
turn away.

“Senator, there were reports you may have
been the target of the attack. Is this true?”

Fraser nodded regretfully. “I was scheduled
to give a speech at midday today. Thank God I was running late, or I would have
been caught in the explosion myself.”

“Senator,” A female reporter called, “Will
this delay your Security Bill coming up for a vote next month?”

He waved for quiet again. “I believe this
attack proves we cannot and should not let our nation’s security be undermined
by apathy and penny pinching in Washington. Attacks can arise at any time, from
any direction, so we must be ever vigilant. I am pledged to defend this country
against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and naturally, those forces who
would see our institutions overthrown would like to see me silenced.” Fraser
paused theatrically, drawing out the moment. “I promise you, I will not be
silenced. I hope and pray that when my proposals are voted on, what has
happened here today will be remembered, and we will get what we need to defend
this great country.”

Mitch suppressed an urge to shoot the
television. Instead, he turned to Mouse. “See what you can find out about
Fraser’s proposals. Maybe there’s something in there that shouldn’t be.”

Mouse turned to his computer, and began
calling up search engines.

Another reporter asked, “There are reports
that convention security people may have been involved. Can you confirm this?”

“There's no truth in that. I’m a member of
the organizing committee, and I can assure you, the security people we hired
were completely reliable. The FBI have informed me that the security staff
perished in the fire, doing their duty ensuring as many people as possible
escaped, and fighting the fire inside.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence from
the reporters, then one asked, “Senator, are you saying
all
of the convention security staff are dead? Every one of them?”

Carefully rehearsed emotion flickered
across Fraser's face. “Yes, they were killed in the explosion. They gave their
lives so that others may live. I will personally be attending a church service
tomorrow morning in their honor. Each and every one of them was a hero.”

“What a load of BS!” Mitch exclaimed. “They
were murdered as surely as if they’d taken a bullet in the head.”

“No wonder the FBI think the security
guards are innocent!” Mouse declared bitterly. “No one will ever believe they
stood there like lemmings, waiting to be incinerated!”

“I wouldn’t have believed it myself, if I
hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

Senator Fraser gave a parting wave, turned
and continued on toward the convention center's burnt out entrance. One of his
security men stepped in behind him, as another reporter attempted to push
forward with a question. The security man gently placed an arm barring the
reporter’s path, turning his face toward the camera as he eased the man back.

“McNamara!” Mitch exclaimed, as the ex-NSA officer’s
face filled the screen momentarily, then he turned his back on the camera and walked
after the senator.

“Nothing flushes out vermin like a good
fire,” Gunter said.

Mitch tossed the towel into the bathroom,
then pulled on a shirt. “With McNamara, Fraser and the general all there, it
makes quite an impressive little group.”

“I’ll pull Gray's bio,” Mouse said. “It
shouldn't be too hard to get.”

“Hopefully, Lamar doesn't realize who he's
dealing with.” Mitch said. “I'm hoping he's a straight arrow. We could use a
break.”

“He’s got free will,” Christa said.

“While you're doing the background check on
Gray, I'll get a map,” Mitch said as he finished buttoning his shirt. “I want
to plot the latitude and longitude we got from the satellite truck. See what’s
there.”

“I can tell you what the map will show,”
Mouse said cynically. “Absolutely nothing.”

* * * *

All four studied the large map of
Arizona, while Mitch carefully plotted Sincom One's latitude and longitude. When
he found the location, he drew a neat cross on the map at the coordinates and
printed Sincom One underneath.

“I told you!” Mouse declared. “A big fat
nothing!”

“Not exactly nothing.” Mitch said. “We now know
Sincom One lies in a wilderness region a few miles west of the Eagletail
Mountains, and it’s not part of any known military base. That’s a good start.”

“I imagine it is hot there this time of
year,” Gunter said, guessing what Mitch had in mind.

“Hot as Hades, so pack a hat.” Mitch folded
the map, then threw a curious look toward Mouse. “What did you dig up on the general?”

Mouse turned his attention to his notes. “I’ve
got his personnel records. General Nathan Gray, born Atlanta, Georgia. Third in
his class at West Point. He's got a degree in engineering, spent the early part
of his career in Army Aviation, then he moved into the Army Space and Missile
Defense Command. He spent quite a bit of time down at Redstone, where he got a
taste for NASA. That's where the Marshall Space Flight Center is. He made four
applications to NASA, none successful. After the fourth rejection, he applied
to Stanford to do a Master’s degree, was accepted, but then withdrew. No reason
given. That was almost ten years ago. His designation changed about then to an
ambiguous Special Projects designator, which means he was doing something
classified. At that point, his career dropped off the radar. No more
applications to NASA. No requests for transfer. Nothing, except he picked up
his three stars. Someone liked what he was doing.”

Mitch looked thoughtful. “It’s not enough
to make him the puppet master, but it keeps him in the running. What about
Fraser’s Security Bill?”

Mouse thumbed through his notes. “It’s big.
Huge budget increases across the board for the military, and for the intelligence
agencies, but the scariest thing is the suppression of rights. Even US citizens
won't have the right to a trial, under certain circumstances, and suppression
orders will be able to constrain free speech in the name of national security. There's
so much money involved, there's no way to know if any of it's going to black
projects.”

“It would be easy to hide money for any
purpose in all those hundreds of billions of dollars,” Gunter observed.

“Legitimate or not, if he gets his way, he'll
turn the country into an armed camp,” Mouse said.

“Christa,” Mitch said, “How close do you have
to be to know if someone's conditioned?”

“Twenty feet, maybe a little further if I’m
not too tired.”

“I can’t help wondering about the timing of
a three star general and a senator, both arriving at the convention center,
right after it went up in flames. If it'd gone the way they'd planned, downtown
Manhattan would have been a crater. That's a good platform to make a pitch
direct to the American people. They had to be waiting outside the blast radius.”

“There is an alternate possibility,” Gunter
said cautiously. “General Gray may be investigating what is going on, and the
timing is coincidental.”

“I don't believe in coincidences. We need
to get Christa close to the general, to confirm he's still got his marbles.”

“And if he isn't conditioned, then what?”
Christa asked.

Mitch exhaled slowly. “Then we’re facing a
military coup d’etat.”

* * * *

The FBI had cordoned off the area
surrounding the convention center, keeping the dwindling numbers of sightseers
and news crews well back from the smoking ruin. Inside the cordon, police, fire
brigade, forensic investigators and FBI teams analyzed the crime scene and
collected evidence. Shortly after sunset, large portable floodlights were
placed around the building so the investigation could proceed through the
night. By midnight, only a single news helicopter was overhead, circling like a
vulture above a rotting carcass, reporting General Gray was still on site with
a military team.

Mitch looked perplexed as he walked past late
night curiosity seekers beyond the cordon. “Why would he stay? The fire’s out. Everyone
who's going to escape, is gone.”

Christa looked thoughtful. “I don't have a
sense of him. We're too far away.”

“G, keep the car ready, and close. I’ll
radio you if we need to bug out of here fast. We’ll stay and try to spot the general
as he leaves.”

While Gunter slipped into the side street
toward their car, Mitch, Christa and Mouse moved around behind the spectators,
looking for a stretch of unwatched police tape. Uniformed police guarded the
perimeter, so they turned into an alley and worked their way behind the
buildings opposite the entrance to the convention center.

“Did I mention,” Mouse said, “That I’m not
comfortable sneaking through dark alleys in New York this time of night?”

Mitch ignored him, halting at a deserted
lane that led back toward the main street. A glance confirmed there were no
police barring the way, so they moved forward at a leisurely pace, and slipped
under the police tape. Fire engines still blocked the main road and abandoned
media trucks obstructed much of the opposite side of the street. Using the
vehicles for cover, they found a vantage point with a clear view of the center's
entrance, but there was no sign of General Gray.

Christa shook head. “Still nothing. I've
got to be closer.”

Mitch studied the entrance, catching
glimpses of white coated forensic experts gathering samples of the burnt out
interior. “We can’t get in that way, that’s for sure. We’d be spotted in a
second.”

“Some of that chemical had to survive,”
Mouse said. “If those guys are straight, it won’t take them long to figure out
what it was.”

“Make sure you get us a copy of their
report. It’ll make interesting reading.”

They continued on past the entrance, until they
had a clear view of the street running alongside the building. Two large flat
bed army trucks and a Humvee were parked near the rear of the burned out
building, guarded by a small number of heavily armed soldiers. One of the
flatbed trucks had a large object placed on it, covered by a green tarpaulin. Odd
protuberances pushed against the tarpaulin, hinting at the unrecognizable shape
within. At the end of the street, several men in civilian clothes quietly
ushered a TV camera crew away from the side street, preventing them taking
pictures of the vehicles. Overhead, the lone TV chopper attempted to circle over
the trucks, but a military helicopter swooped in out of the blackness and
obstructed their view. Mitch was sure instructions were radioed to the news
helicopter, ordering it to move away from the area. Orbiting high above the
scene, were more black helicopters, obscured against the night sky.

“Call me paranoid,” Mouse said, “But what’s
with all the military choppers?”

Two large doors swung open at the rear of
the building, near where the military convoy was parked. A dozen men came
through the doors, one driving a small four wheeled tow vehicle mounting a
short heavy duty crane. Suspended from the crane by steel cables was a
blackened metal object, bent and twisted from heat and explosive force. The tow
vehicle’s engine groaned under the weight as it lifted the melted machine onto
the back of the truck, then soldiers clambered up to secure a green tarpaulin
over the wrecked object.

“Now we know why the general hasn’t left,”
Mitch said. “He didn’t come here to inspect the damage, he came here to find
out what survived the explosion. This is a cleanup operation.”

“They don’t look like much now,” Christa
said, “But I bet that wreckage is all that's left of the machines inside the
speakers, that caused the electric arc.”

One of the men that accompanied the melted
machine yelled a command, then hurried to the rear of the truck for a final
inspection. Mitch caught just enough of the man’s face to recognize him. “Bradick!”

The former navy SEAL finished his
inspection, looked up toward the open double doors and gave the thumbs up to
someone unseen inside. The man stepped forward, still partly concealed by
shadows, but even at that distance, Mitch was sure he was wearing a uniform. Bradick
saluted, then the man in the shadows returned the salute.