All such cogitations left my head when we reached the observation dome, which offered an unobstructed view in every direction— a view that stretched the limits of my credulity even further.
CHAPTER 10
Surrounding us was the panorama of the night sky, though I didn't have an opportunity to enjoy it: I could see at least five Geronimos— Apache Mark V military helicopters that had been adapted for use by local law enforcement as well as the FBI — in pursuit of our ship, their cannons spinning as they blasted glowing tracer rounds at us. In addition, there was a fleet of late-model Hummers coursing through the streets below, lights flashing and large-caliber mounted guns ablaze. From the look of things, I quickly calculated that we had only a few moments to live — especially as we weren't yet returning fire.
But then I noticed that as the multitude of bullets being fired at us reached the tapering, rounded fuselage of the ship — its pair of foldaway wings and its glowing "head" resembling nothing so much as a giant flying fish — most of them swerved badly off target. Tressalian read the puzzled look on my face (he was evidently as perceptive as his sister), then touched the collar of his own shirt and began to speak to Larissa through what I realized was a surgically implanted communications system that provided the two with a secure link to each other.
"Sister?… Yes, Dr. Wolfe's right here, and watching anxiously. But remember, we're making directly for the coast, so there's no need for excessive — Larissa?" Tressalian took his fingers from his throat with an indulgent shake of his head, then held a hand toward the scene being played out around us. "I suggest you observe, Doctor — this seems to be for your benefit."
With that, the large rail gun in the ship's turret opened fire, expelling flights of projectiles that were proportionately larger than the ones fired by Larissa's handgun. The varied pattern of destruction wrought by the gun as it spun from pursuer to pursuer was awesome to behold: a finely focused burst could removed a Hummer's wheel or a Geronimo's mounted gun, while a wider pattern could reduce both land and air units to so much shrapnel — and human body parts. All of this, or so Tressalian had said, was for my benefit: an effort by Larissa not only to impress me with her flying and combat skills but also, it seemed, to let me know that what I had stumbled onto was some kind of mortal struggle. But over what?
Excitement, horror, and, yes, some satisfaction (given that our pursuers were doubtless ultimately controlled by the same people who had killed Max) were registering inside me; yet I was still clearheaded enough to be curious. "Their bullets," I said. "They're not reaching us."
"It has been said," Tressalian explained, "that the man who controls electromagnetism controls the known forces of our universe. I don't pretend to have mastered the area yet, but we have enough insight to be able to project fields that will cause far more complex forms of matter than bullets to change their behavior. Even without the fields we'd be in little danger — the ship's superstructure and sheathing, even its transparent sections, are constructed of advanced composite resins. Stronger than high-quality steel of a much greater thickness and far lighter." Tressalian paused a moment, still watching me. "You're appalled, no doubt," he finally said. "But believe me when I say that if the governments of the world left us any choice—"
"Of the world!" I echoed in a whisper. "But I thought—"
"Oh, our efforts are quite global. Here, come and look at this, Doctor." Tressalian turned and hobbled over to a bank of monitors that was installed on a low table at the center of the observation dome. "It may help you understand."
I soon found myself staring at half a dozen images of a considerable military force on the move. There were ships at sea, remote-piloted fighter-bombers in flight, their ghostly cockpits empty of anything save computer equipment, and carrier crews loading still more warplanes with bombs and missiles.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The reason your friend Mr. Jenkins was killed," Tressalian replied. "An American task force, on its way to inflict what will certainly be a massive attack."
"On whom? Where are they going?"
"The same place we are — Afghanistan."
CHAPTER 11
"Afghanistan…"I said, thunderstruck. "But why? And how in hell are you getting pictures of all this?"
"By satellite," Tressalian answered simply. "Our own satellites."
My mind made a sudden connection. "Satellites… satellites! Tressalian—Stephen Tressalian, the man who devised the four-gigabyte satellite system, who created the modern Internet!"
"He was my father," my host acknowledged with an ambiguous nod. "And that sin was indeed his, along with many others. But he paid for his transgressions in the end — and his money did allow us to undertake all this."
"But what in God's name are you doing?"
"The more important question right now," Tressalian answered evasively, "is, what is your government doing?"
" 'My' government? Isn't it your government, too?"
Tressalian, slightly amused, shook his head. "Not for many years. Those of us aboard this ship have renounced all nationalities — largely because of these sorts of national behaviors." He indicated the screens.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "What are they doing?"
"It would seem that they intend to finally eradicate the very impressive underground complex that has been the principal training ground for Islamic terrorists during the last two decades."
I looked at the busy screens again. "Retaliation for Khaldun killing President Forrester?" I asked.
Tressalian nodded. "Your country is, after all, nearing a national election. But there's a slight problem with the government's decision, one that I have reason to believe it has begun to suspect but which it cannot, given the political rhetoric that led to this launch, allow anyone such as yourself to discover. You see, Tariq Khaldun wasn't a terrorist — and he certainly didn't kill President Forrester."
"But the disc—"
"The man on that disc" — Tressalian touched a keypad on the table and brought up the assassination images that Max and I had studied for so many hours—"was in fact an actor of Afghan origin who enjoyed some slight success in the Indian film industry during the last part of the twentieth century. We—borrowed his image." Tressalian shrugged with a smile. "How could I know that there was a minor Afghan diplomat in Chicago who might be the man's double? Don't worry, though, we've arranged for Mr. Khaldun's escape. At any rate, the actual killer of the late, lamented President Forrester was" — another touch of a keypad, and the image before me changed to the second version of the event that I'd seen, the one in which the assassin's face was Asian—"this fellow. Hung Ting-hsin, a major in the Chinese external security force."
I paused, now wholly unaware of the dance of fire and death that was going on beyond the transparent shell around us. "You deliberately distorted what happened?"
"I'm afraid so."
"So Price created those images for you—you were the 'private contractor' his wife told me about."