“No,” Hood said. He suspected that what had hit Op-Center was not just a burned-out generator or a simple power failure.
He hurried to the door and opened it. The corridor beyond Bugs’s cubicle was filled with wispy, yellowish smoke. The air was rich with the pungent aroma of ozone mixed with the foul smell of melted plastic. He later learned that these were from charred outlet plates, electric wires, and telephone lines.
Bugs was standing in the corridor, fanning away smoke, trying to see. He looked back when Hood emerged.
“What happened?” Hood asked.
“Something blew up in the lounge, I think,” Bugs said. “I tried to call the gate to seal the perimeter, but the phones are fried.”
“Emergency power is gone?” Hood asked.
“Everything.”
“Do we know about casualties?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?” Hood asked.
“Yes.”
“Start getting people toward the stairwell,” Hood said.
“Mike is doing that,” Bugs said.
“Help him,” Hood said.
“Sure,” Bugs said. “Be careful.”
Rodgers and Ron Plummer were the heads of the emergency evac team. The thought of them working together did not fill him with hope but with pride and respect. Differences among Americans always vanished when it mattered.
Hood gave Bugs a reassuring pat on the back just as Matt Stoll appeared from the mist. He was heading in the direction of the blast. Hood went with him.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Hood asked.
“We got kilned,” Stoll said angrily.
“Sorry?”
“Superheated. The only thing I know that could do this is an e-bomb.”
“Are you sure?” Hood asked.
“The glow of the lights, the monitors, is like a fingerprint. Nothing else could cause that.”
“Was it inside the building or out?” Hood asked.
“Inside. I stopped by the Tank, and it was fine. I left Jefferson there to call for help. He was able to raise the front gate, which means they were not affected.”
While all of Op-Center was secure, the Tank was the equivalent of an electronic fallout shelter. The conference room was protected from eavesdropping, hacking, and all manners of attack, including electromagnetic pulse. Stoll had designed it to be a large-scale Faraday cage, a hollow conductor that spread a charge along the outside of a system without producing an electric field inside. That would include a burst from an electromagnetic pulse. Ironically, Hood had believed that the only way they would be affected by an e-bomb is if an Air Force test at Andrews went sour.
Until now.
The smoke and the smell grew stronger as they neared the lounge. Stoll covered his mouth with a handkerchief, but Hood did not. The smoke was not too acrid, and he did not want to appear weak or impaired. That was important in a crisis. The men rounded a corner and entered the lounge.
The small room was clogged with yellow gray smoke. Without ventilation, it hung there, virtually impenetrable.
“Is anyone in here?” Hood shouted.
There was no answer.
“The smoke is from the explosive that triggered the EM burst,” Stoll said. The portly scientist shuffled across the tile so he did not trip over any debris. While Stoll moved deeper, he waved his left hand to help clear the smoke. “The explosion was extremely low yield.”
“How can you tell?” Hood asked. He was following behind, waving both hands and looking for victims.
“For one thing, the explosion did not have to be large to trigger the pulse. For another, I can see the base of the water cooler. The left side is gone. The bomb must have been beside it.”
Hood saw a body. He knelt and bent close. Ugly, twisted pieces of the water cooler base were lodged in the man’s chest. Blood stained his blue shirt thickly. He was not breathing.
“Who is it?” Stoll asked.
“Mac McCallie.” Hood went to where he knew the candy and soda machines were. He fanned away the smoke. The vending machines were damaged, but not badly. Hood continued to feel his way around. There were upended tables and chairs, their legs twisted and surfaces peppered with shrapnel. From below. He felt the tops. They were spotted with blood. That meant they were still standing when McCallie was struck. Stoll was correct. The bomb was probably beside the cooler. Mac must have been here checking on the scheduled water delivery. Bloody damn government contracts like that were public information. Anyone could have gotten it. Hood took a slightly singed dishcloth from the sink and lay it gently across the dead man’s face.
“This was designed to stop us, not kill us,” Stoll said.
“Tell that to Mac,” Hood said.
“Chief, I’m sorry,” Stoll replied. “He was in the wrong place. All I’m saying is that whoever created this wanted to shut Op-Center down.”
Jefferson Jefferson appeared in the thinning smoke of the doorway. “The base has been sealed, and an emergency rescue team is on the way.”
“Thanks. Now get yourself out of here, but wait for the ERT at the top of the stairs,” Hood said. “Tell them to come here.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man replied. He remained in the doorway for a moment looking at the body on the floor.
“Go,” Hood said.
Jefferson turned and left. Hood heard his footsteps as he retreated. Except for distant voices and Matt’s strained breathing, Hood heard nothing else. Op-Center seemed as lifeless as poor Mac. It was strange. He was able to compartmentalize the death of the man. It was a terrible event, but Hood would mourn later as he had Charlie Squires, Martha Mackall, and too many others. It was much more difficult to get his brain around the idea that Op-Center was a marble-silent tomb. This facility had given his life purpose, the only direction he seemed to have. Absent that, Hood felt as dead as Mac. Except he was still breathing.
Mike would say that means there’s still hope, Hood thought. Maybe that would follow. Right now, all Hood felt was helplessness bordering on fear. He knew he had to get that under control. He had to focus.
Hood went over to Stoll. The computer scientist was squatting beside the jagged ruins of the water cooler and the adjoining debris field. Stoll had removed a penlight from his shirt pocket. He had taken it from an emergency supply kit in the Tank. He was examining the floor closely without touching anything. He looked like a boy studying an anthill.
“Does this tell you anything?” Hood asked.
“The bomb was not homemade,” Stoll said.
“How can you tell?”
“They used eighteen-gauge clear sterling copper wire,” he said through the handkerchief as he pointed with the penlight. “That gives an electromagnetic device a bigger pulse than standard twelve-gauge gold copper wire. But that is only true if the copper is free of impurities. A bomb maker needs some pretty sophisticated thermographic and harmonic testing equipment to qualify wire of that size.”
“I assume the military has that capability,” Hood said. “Who else?”
“A university laboratory, an aircraft or appliance manufacturer, any number of factories,” Stoll told him. “The companion question, of course, is in addition to having the technical wherewithal, who would have the logistical chops to put an e-bomb inside a water bottle?”
“Or a reason,” Hood said, thinking aloud.
“Yeah,” Stoll replied, rising. “I don’t imagine that Chrysler or Boeing has it in for us.”
The emergency rescue team arrived then, their flashlights probing the misty air. The smoke had achieved a consistency that made visibility a little easier. Mike Rodgers was the first man to enter. Seeing him, in command of the team and the situation, gave Hood a boost.