Brother David sits in the deputy’s flight chair, barely noticing James, who continues to work at the computer. “I may have misjudged the sergeant,” David says, perhaps to himself.
Overhearing him, Susan Burns says, “So you admit fallibility.”
“Don’t play your shrink games with me, doctor. I know all the tricks of the trade. I never claimed infallibility. If I am the Messiah, it is in sinful form.”
“Or are you just a charlatan? Didn’t Jesus warn of false prophets, wolves in sheep’s clothing?”
“Then you should be afraid of my bite.”
“There’s still time to back down. You can make a statement on television, get your message across.”
“My message will be delivered with the heat of a thousand suns.”
“Unless the sergeant stops you.”
“The sergeant,” he repeats. Thinking about him now. Not admitting, even to himself, the concern, but summoning up a vision. Just a color at first, a grayish white. He concentrates and sees it clearer, a flowing grayish sheet, and he peers deep into his mind but can only think of a banner waving in the wind. It does not compute. Not getting a handle on the vision, he lets it go.
He opens Jericho’s personnel file and thumbs through the pages. “I thought the sergeant would run and hide at the sound of a shaken leaf. What do you suppose has gotten into this cowardly coal miner?”
Susan Burns does not answer immediately, and David shoots a lethal glance at her. When she remains silent, he approaches her and places his face close to hers. “Your diagnosis, doctor, or would you prefer to stretch your arms again?”
“Jack Jericho has a purpose,” she says, finally. “A reason for living, at least for a while.”
“And what would that be?”
“To kill you, of course,” she answers, “or to die trying.”
Jack Jericho moves deeper into the sump, takes a fork in the channel and pauses to listen. Just the familiar thumpa heartbeat of the pumps. He is alone. He wonders when the Army’s assault will come, wants to be part of it, his mind’s eye painting wondrous pictures as he leads a contingent of Delta Force soldiers into the capsule. Rescuing the damsel, saving the world. Stupid, he thinks. Special Ops won’t let him near the place, and he’d probably screw it up if they did.
Suddenly, the cellular phone rings.
Jericho clicks a button. “Yeah.”
“You’re making a mess of things, maintenance man,” David says.
“Just doing my job.”
“I think not. I think it’s become personal. But your heroics are futile.”
“I never wanted to be a hero.”
“And you’ve succeeded.” He laughs. “But where do you go from here?”
“Wherever you are, pal. You want to get rid of me, let the woman go.”
“Oh, how gallant, how chivalrous. And here, I thought you were protecting the interests of your government. It turns out you’re just pursuing an unrequited love.” He turns toward Susan Burns. “It is unrequited, isn’t it, doctor? I’d hate to think you were mixing business with dubious pleasure of fornicating with the janitor.”
“You’re wrong,” Susan says. “The pleasures were exquisite. Jack Jericho is all man.” Mocking the preacher. Letting him know who measures up and who doesn’t.
Through the phone, Jack hears her, and for a moment, wonders if he has missed something. No, even drunk, he would have remembered that.
“Liar!” David fumes, but his voice betrays doubt, the beginning of weakness.
Jericho keeps quiet. In the capsule, David punches a button, muting his microphone, then gestures toward Captain Pukowlski, who is shackled against the wall. “That noise on the phone,” David says, “what is it?”
The captain doesn’t answer, and Rachel presses a rifle barrel into his fleshy jowls.
“What is it!” David demands. The thumpa can clearly be heard on the speaker.
“The drainage pump,” the captain says, grimacing. “In the sump.”
“But where?” The rifle barrel presses harder.
“Channel B, maybe sixty meters west of the missile.”
“Thank you, captain,” David says. He gestures to a commando guard. “Now take him back to the storage room with the ambassadors. Keep him out of my sight, or I’ll kill him.” David turns his mike back on and says into the phone, “Sergeant, you seem to be all alone in the world.”
In the sump, Jericho slogs through the dirty water. A rat scurries across a pipe above his head. He listens to David’s voice on the phone. “Perhaps we could make room for you in our family.”
“No thanks,” Jericho says. “Your family is seriously dysfunctional.”
He hangs up.
Two uniforms and a suit surround General Corrigan. F.B.I. Agent Hurtgen, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Griggs and Commander Woody Waller, the three hostage response team leaders, jockey for position and plead their cases as the general examines the sophisticated diorama of the missile facility, complete with miniature commandos and toy soldiers.
“I’d run a diversion toward the elevator,” Griggs says, gesturing to the model, “then run a full rappel strike down the silo wall.”
The general nods, then using a wooden pointer, slides a platoon of toy soldiers and tiny Armored Personnel Carriers toward the silo.
Agent Hurtgen shakes his head. “It’d be ninety seconds quicker straight down the elevator shaft, based on our Hostage Response Unit computer simulation.”
“Simulation, masturbation,” sneers Waller. “Fuck ‘em in both holes at once.”
“I agree with Woody,” Griggs says.
Waller beams at the support from his Army rival. “And let the F.B.I. sit this one out. When it comes to rappelling under fire, you have to go with SEAL TEAM-6.”
“SEALS, schmeals,” Hurtgen responds. “This isn’t a beach landing.”
Woody Waller bristles. “One contingency was an amphibious assault. The map showed a river running next to the silo.”
“The river’s been dry for five years!” Hurtgen yells. “Shit, even the Triple-A maps have that right. What’s the matter, can’t the Jedi Warriors read?”
Mocking the nickname of SEAL TEAM-6 was too much. Waller wouldn’t mind taking this guy on an underwater demolition job and shoving the explosives up his ass. Just as he’s about to suggest that, General Corrigan sweeps the pointer across the diorama, scattering the toy soldiers over the miniature countryside. “Men, let’s work together, okay?”
Colonel Griggs clears his throat and says, “General, if we don’t kick off soon, Delta Force and the SEALS are going to start killing each other.”
Bells ring and chimes sound in the computer, and James sits ramrod straight, watching a blizzard of numbers flash across the monitor. “Voila,” he says, triumphantly.
David slides his flight chair down the railing next to James. “Do you have it?”
“Got my foot in the back door.” James’ eyes are red and he is fatigued, but his voice reflects the excitement of a new discovery. A message scrolls across the monitor, “SECONDARY LAUNCH CODE MATRIX.”
“Yes!” James shouts. He hits several more keys, sweat plastering his pale hair to his forehead. “Just one more little… ”
Another message appears on the monitor, “ENTER PASSWORD TO ACCESS CODE.”
“Shit!” James bangs several more keys, but the same message repeats itself.
David wheels around and faces Owens. “Don’t look at me,” the lieutenant says. “The password is transmitted with the E.A.M. launch order. I’ve never seen it, never heard it.”